DIANA  CAREW; 


OR, 


BY  MRS.  FORRESTER. 


DONOHUE,  HENNEBERRY  &  CO, 

407  TO  425  PE^JIBOBN  ST., 

CHICAGO. 


DIANA  CAREW; 

OR, 

FOR    A    WOMAN'S    SAKE. 


BY  MRS.  FORRESTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

"  HERE  comes  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!  Ask  her  what  she 
thinks!" 

I,  Diana  Carew,  am  the  person  thus  apostrophized.  The 
speaker  is  my  only  brother.  Wyndham — commonly  called  Curly 
— Carew.  The  third  person  is  my  father— God  bless  him!  A 
dearer,  kinder  father  never  breathecl. 

He  smiles,  and  lays  his  hand  on  j~y  shoulder,  as,  having  de- 
posited my  burden — a  jet-black  kitte^,  and  a  creamy-white  one 
— one  on  each  of  Curly's  shoulders,  I  seat  myself  on  his  knee. 

"Read  that,  Di,"  he  says,  putting  into  my  hand  a  heavily- 
crested  and  monogramed  envelope,  directed  in  a  lady-like  hand 
to  Wyndham  Carew,  Esq. 

With  eager  curiosity  I  take  out  the  note  it  contains,  and  re*»A 
as  follows: 

"  DEAR  MR.  CAREW, — "We  really  cannot  allow  you  to  condemr, 

your  pretty  daughter "    (I  feel  flattered,  and  blush  a  little;  it 

is  not  often  I  have  that  adjective  applied  to  me.) 

"  Aha,  Miss  Vanity!"  cries  Curly,  "  I  see  the  rose  come  to  your 
damask  cheek  at  the  soft  impeachment.  Proceed,  pretty 
daughter, 

"  Don't  interrupt  her,  Curly." 

"To  the  hermit's  life,'  I  read  on,  "you  persist  in  leading 
yourself,  much  to  the  regret  and  disappointment  of  your 
neighbors." 

"  Who  is  this  polite  lady  ?"  I  inquire,  referring  to  the  end  of 
the  note.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Warrington!" 

"  We  have  some  friends  coming  to  vis  on  New  Year's  Day,  and 
if  you,  with  your  son  and  daughter,  will  spend  a  few  days  here, 


2135454 


2  DIANA    CAREW. 

we  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you  all.  We  hope  to  prevail  upon 
you  to  join  us;  but,  if  you  are  as  resolute  as  usual  in  declining 
all  invitations,  do  not  deprive  us  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your 
young  people.  Mr.  Warrington  has  still  some  fair  shooting  left, 
if  that  will  be  any  inducement  to  you  personally;  and  he  bids 
me  say  he  will  mount  your  son  as  often  as  he  likes.  Tell  Miss 
Carew  we  shall  have  a  little  dancing,  and,  I  hope,  some  other 
amusements  for  the  young  ladies.  I  warn  you  I  do  not  intend 
to  take  any  refusal  as*  far  as  she  is  concerned,  and  if  you  do  not 
yield  at  once  to  my  request,  I  shall  come  over  and  press  it  per- 
sonally. 

"  Mr.  Warrington  joins  rne  in  kindest  regards,  and  believe  me, 
dear  Mr.  Carew,  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  GEORGIAN  A  WARRINGTON." 

My  eyes  glisten,  the  color  deepens  in  my  face  as  I  read, 
and 'when  I  have  finished  I  look  up  eagerly  in  my  father's 
face. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  (his  kind  eyes  shining  tenderly  upon  me), 
"  what  do  you  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  papa,  could  we  go?" 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  it  very  much?" 

"  Oh!"  (with  a  great  sigh,  which,  if  it  expresses  what  I  feel, 
must  speak  volumes). 

"  If  you  do  not,  people  will  think  I  am  a  tyrannical  old  ogre, 
who  keeps  you  shut  up  like  the  fathers  in  story-books." 

"Oh,  dad,  do  let  us  go!"  cries  Curly,  with  enthusiasm.  "It 
will  be  such  glorious  fun!— and  old  Warrington  has  such  splen- 
did horses.  Til  show  them  the  way!"  (his  blue  eyes  flashing 
with  delight  at  the  bare  thought  of  hunting  on  one  of  Mr.  War- 
rington's  mounts). 

"  My  dear  fellow,  suppose  you  staked  or  broke  the  back  or 
threw  one  of  his  two-hundred-guinea  hunters!  How  would  you 
feel  ?" 

"  Never  fear,  dad;  I'll  be  as  steady  as  old  Time." 

"Well,"  says  papa,  thoughtfully,  "if  you  are  both  so  anx- 
ious. I  do  not  see  any  very  important  objection  to  your 
going." 

"  But  you  will  go,  too?"  we  both  cry,  in  a  breath. 

He  shakes  his  head,  and  sighs  a  little. 

"  No.  children,  my  visiting  days  are  over,  and  you  know  I  do 
not  care  to  accept  kindnesses  I  cannot  return." 

"  Then  I  shall  not  go — that  is  very  certain,"  I  say,  decis- 
ively, but  with  a  little  swelling  of  disappointment"  in  my 
throat. 

"  Nor  I,"  adds  Curly,  in  a  dejected  tone. 

Our  father  looks  at  us  both  with  a  fond  smile. 

"  What!  do  you  think  I  am  not  to  be  trusted  by  myself  for  a 
few  days  ?"  he  asks,  putting  a  hand  on  each  of  our  shoulders. 
"  Mrs.  Warrington  is  quite  right.  I  must  not  keep  i  4  shut  up 
forever.  It  is  time  she  came  out;  and  I  do  not  know  any  one 
under  whose  auspices  I  should  better  like  her  to  do  so  than  Mrs. 
Warrington's.  Why,  how  old  are  you,  Di  ?  Seventeen." 


DIANA    CAREW.  3 

"  Eighteen  last  month,  papa,  you  knoic,"  I  answer  reproach- 
fully. "  But  I  shall  not  go  without  you.  I  shouldn't  care  the 
least  for  it.  And  besides,"  as  a  sudden  and  most  important  re- 
flection occurs  to  me,  "  /  have  nothing  'o  30  in." 

"Beauty  unadorned's  adorr  d  the  lost,"  spouts  Curly. 
"  Thank  Heaven!"  ^grandly),  "  those  isideratio?  =;  'on't  affect 
me." 

"Ah!"  says  m  father,  ruefully,  "  I  forgot  that.  To  be  sure, 
that  is  a  very  important  point.  nd  I  suppose  (looking  at  me 
inquiringly)  "  ladif  dr  ss  is  a  tremendous  business  in  the  present 
day." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  reply,  cheerfully, ."  ,ving  quite  made  up  my  mind 
now  to  the  impossibility  of  goir  .  "Miss  Pratt  told  me  that 
when  she  was  at  Lady  G-wyneth  Desbc  ugh's  for  ree  days,  the 
ladies  chan  -ed  theiv  dresses  four  .me-  ;.  day,  and  had  different 
ones  every  da,,  v 

"  Indeed!"  says  pr/\.,  smiling.  "  But  I  do  not  suppose  you 
would  be  ^xpectec.  .-.'dress  like  Lady  Gwyneth:  though  I  hardly 
fancy  :;hc  ha  \°vi;  mor;  dresse  >  you  have  before  she  mar- 
ried poor  llttic  Desborcugh." 

"  Well,"  I  reply,  with  mor.  emphasis  ^an  legance,  "  I  would 
rather  go  about  in  a  cotton  ,  iwn  all  my  ife  than  have  married 
h im .'" 

A"*  "  Oh,  he  isn't  bad  littl  chap,"  remarks  Curly,  "  if  he  wasn't 
30  dreadfully  ashamed  of  f  shop,  and  so  ond  of  talking  about 
/  his  father-in-law,  the  earl.  ' 

"  But,  Di,"  puts  in  my  "  theiv  "  you  must  have  one  or  two 
""""cJresses,  I  suppose.  Y^  i  'ways  seem  to  me"  (doubtfully)  "  to 
look  very  nice." 

I  shake  my  head, 

"Only  this,"  ointing  t  my  well-worn  serge,  "and  an  old 
black- silk  for  Sundays,  that  has  been  turned  twice,  and  a  white 
muslin,  so  shrunk  thr  the  body  wouldn't  meet  last  time  it  came 
from  the  wash.  No  "(with  mournful  emphasis),  "it  is  very 
certain  I  cannot  go  to  Mrs.  Warrington's." 

"  Oh,  dear!"  cries  Curly,  ruefully,  "what  a  selfish  beggar  I 
have  been,  running  the  dad  up  such  tailors'  bills  at  Eton,  and  all 
the  time  poor  little  Di  has  had  to  do  without." 

"  Why,  Curly,''  I  respond,  quickly,  "  what  in  the  world  do  I 
want  with  clothes  here  ?  And  if  you  were  different  from  the 
other  boys — I  mean  fellows — at  Eton,  it  would  never  do." 

"  Come,"  says  my  father,  "it's  not  too  late  now.  Gay  and 
you  must  lay  your  heads  together  and  see  what  can  be  done.  I 
think  I  have  a  ten-pound  note  somewhere,  and  I  suppose  if  you 
had  a  dress  for  the  day,  and  another  for  the  evening,  that  would 
do,  just  for  a  few  days." 

"  Ten  pounds!"  I  cry.  The  idea  of  spending  such  a  sum  all  at 
once  upon  my  dress  seems  preposterous.  "  But  I  am  not  going. 
Curly  can  go;  you  and  I  will  stop  at  home  together,  papa,  and 
be  as  happy  as — as " 

"  As  what  T  asks  papa,  smiling. 

"  As  anything,"  I  respond,  lamely,  not  finding  a  suitable  com- 
parison. 


4  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  Now,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  you  shall  both  go,"  says 
my  father,  "  so  I  shall  proceed  to  my  room  and  write  to  Mrs. 
Warrington  that  you  and  Curly  will  be  there  on  New  Year's 
Day.  And  you,  Di,  go  and  consult  with  Gay ;  you  have  a  fort- 
night before  you  to  prepare." 

"  Papa,"  I  say,  obstinately,  "  I  will  not  go.  I  do  not  care 
about  it,  indeed  I  do  not." 

•'  You  will  be  a  good,  obedient  little  daughter,  and  do  as  I  tell 
you,"  he  answers,  going  off  to  write  the  letter,  and  leaving  me 
irresolute  and  uncomfortable  in  my  mind. 

"Curly,"  I  say,  appealing  distressedly  to  my  brother.  "I 
can't — I  won't  go,  and  leave  papa." 

"Nonsense,  Di!  the  dad  will  be  happy  enough.  You'll  have 
to  leave  him  some  day,  when  you  get  married." 

"  Get  married,"  I  retort,  in  exceeding  scorn.  "Yes,  a  great 
deal  of  chance  of  that!  Why  "  (reflecting),  "  I  don't  suppose  I'vo 
spoken  to  a  man — a  gentleman  at  least — since  I  was  growu 
up." 

"What,  not  old  Stiggins  ?" 

"  Don't  speak  disrespectfully  of  your  spiritual  pastors  and 
masters,  sir;  but  I  don't  call  him  a  man." 

'•  Ho,  ho!  I  wonder  which  he  would  call  the  most  disrespect- 
ful— you  or  I  ?" 

"Well"  (sighing),  "I  will  go  and  talk  to  Gay.  Oh,  Curly! 
don't  pull  Othello's  tail." 

Othello  is  the  black  kitten;  the  white  one  rejoices  in  the  name 
of  Desdemona. 

"I'll  come  too."  And  he  marches  off  to  the  housekeeper's 
room,  by  courtesy,  where  Gay,  the  faithful  old  nurse  and  gen- 
eral factotum,  sits  darning  stockings  for  the  million. 

Curly  throws  open  the  door. 

"  Her  majesty  the  queen,  and  his  royal  highness  the  Prince 
of  Wales,"  he  commences,  in  a  loud  and  important  voice,  "  hav- 
ing, for  some  time  past,  remarked  a  dearth  of  beauty  about  tl.e 
court,  and,  hearing  ihat  in  the  wilds  of  Blankshire  there  bloom,  , 
uns"en,  an  exquisite  creature  of  the  name  of  Diana  Carew 
hereby  intimate  that  her  presence  is  forthwith  commanded  aK 
Buckingham  Palace;  which,  being  interpreted,  my  dear  old  Su- 
sannah, means  that  Di  is  going  to  pay  a  swell  visit,  and  that  you 
have  to  set  about  providing  her  with  a  suitable  wardrobe." 

"  Whatever  does  the  boy  mean?"  cries  Gay,  bewildered,  look' 
ing  up  at  us  over  her  spectacles. 

"  What  I  say,  O  unbelieving  Jewess."  dragging  her  work  fron\ 
her  surprised  hands  and  shying  it  to  the  further  corner  of  the 
room.  "Away  with  melancholy!— away  with  worsted  stock- 
ings! From  henceforth  Diana  will  walk  in  silk  attire— will  cap- 
tivate the  heart  of  some  lord  of  high  degree,  and  restore  the 
shattered  fortunes  of  the  house  of  Carew."  And  Curly,  in  the 
blitheness  of  his  young  heart,  hugs  his  old  nurse,  to  the  great 
detriment  of  her  cap-strings, 

She  tries  to  look  angry  and  expostulate,  but  who  can  be  angry 
with  Curly?  Of  all  the  cheery  faces,  of  all  the  beaming  blue 
eyes  brimful  of  laughter,  of  all  the  curly  golden  locks  whence 


DIANA    CAREW.  5 

he  gets  his  sobriquet,  there  are  none  to  equal  those  of  my  young 
brother;  and,  more  than  that,  he  has  the  sweetest  disposition 
and  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world.  If  he  is  a  little  aggravating 
sometimes.  I  should  like  to  know  -what  a  boy  is  worth  whose 
animal  spirits  do  not  run  away  with  him  now  and  then. 

"  Now,  Miss  Di,  my  dear,  do  you  tell  me  what  it's  all  to  do 
•with,"  says  Gay,  apostrophizing  me  in  despair  of  getting  any 
rational  answer  out  of  her  pet — for  Curly  is  her  pet  without  a 
shadow  of  doubt,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  am  very  jealous  of  her 
preference.  Don't  we  all  pet  and  adore  him  ? 

'•  We  ^re  invited  to  Warring-ton  Hall,"  I  answer,  "and  papa 
wishes  us  to  go;  he  won't  go  himself." 

•'  Oh,  my  dear,  what  wUl  you  do  for  clothes?"  cries  practical 
Gay,  at  once  closing  with  the  obstacle  that  had  only  been  an 
after-thought  with  me. 

"  Papa  has  offered  to  give  me  ten  pounds:  but  what  is  the  use 
of  wasting  all  that  money  in  clothes  :"  I  say,  lugubriously. 
"  After  all,  I  don't  suppose  I  should  enjoy  going  to  Warrington 
very  much.  I  think  I'll  run  down  and  ask  papa  to  decline  for 
me." 

"  Rash  girl,  forbear!"  cries  Curly,  catching  me  by  the  arm, 
and  striking  a  tragic  attitude.  "  I've  made  up  mind  you  shall 
go,  and  I  prophesy  you  will  meet  my  future  brother-in-law,  who 
will  be  rich,  and  who  will  mount  me  and  give  me  shooting,  pay 
my  debts,  and,  in  short,  make  himself  a  convenience  to  me 
generally.  You  know,  Di"  (holding  me  at  arm's  length  and  look- 
ing critically  at  me),  "though  I  say  it  who  shouldn't,  you're 
not  altogether  what  one  would  call  an  ugly  girl;  rather  the  other 
way. 

"  Your  hair  is  like  the  raven's  wing. 
Your  brown  eyes  flash  like  anything." 

"  Hold  on!  till  I  get  two  more  lines  to  rhyme. 

"  Your  pearly  teeth  and  coral  lip, 
And  nose  just  turned  up  at  the  tip," 

I  end,  laughing. 

"  By  jingo!  that  makes  a  complete  portrait;  don't  it,  Susannah, 
my  dear  ?" 

"  Well,  Master  Curly,  I  don't  see  that  her  nose  turns  up  at  the 
tip.  I  am  sure  a  straighter  one " 

"  Now,  Gay,"  I  cry,  rudely  breaking  in  upon  her  defense  of 
my  appearance,  "  never  mind  my  nose,  but  let's  think  of  what 
I  am  to  wear,  if  I  do  go  after  all." 

"  I  suppose  ten  pounds  wouldn't  buy  a  velvet  gown,  would  it  ?" 
asks  Curly,  doubtfully. 

"  A  velvet  gown!"  I  laugh.  "  A  nice  matronly  old  person  you 
•would  make  of  me!" 

"Indeed,"  he  retorts,  "  I  can  tell  you  Archdale's  sisters  both 
nave  velvet  gowns,  and  they  are  younger  than  you — at  least,  one 
of  them  is;  but,"  dropping  his  voice,  "  he  told  me  they  cost  five- 
and-twenty  guineas  each." 

"  Well,"  I  return,  with  some  contempt,  "  I  am  not  Archdale's 


6  DIANA    CAREW. 

sister,  and  if  I  had  twenty- five  guineas  I  think  I  could  employ 
them  better." 

"  Di,"  says  Curly,  laying  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  "  I  don't 
think  you'll  find  ten  pounds  go  quite  so  far  as  you  think,  and  " 
(blushing  a  little)  "  if  you  should  want  any  more  I  have  a  fiver 
that  I  have  been  saving  up  and  haven't  any  very  particular  use 
for." 

For  answer  I  throw  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  give  him  a 
fervent  hug,  while  Gay  contemplates  us  both  with  an  expression 
of  beatitude,  murmuring: 

"  Lord  bless  the  dear  children  I" 


CHAPTER  II. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

THE  house  of  Carew  is  not  in  a  flourishing  state  at  the  present 
time;  far  from  it.  Gay  has  wild  legends  about  the  days  of  the 
old  squire,  when  the  Carews  were  great  people  in  the  county, 
of  the  grand  doings,  the  entertainments,  the  carriages  and 
horses,  the  powdered  footmen,  and  all  the  apanages  of  wealth 
and  distinction.  She  has  told  us  a  score  of  times,  as  we  have 
sat  round  the  nursery  fire,  of  the  ox  roasted  whole,  the  barrels 
of  beer,  the  dancing  and  feasting  that  took  place  \  when  our 
father  came  of  ageiand  the  gay  doings  five  years  later,  when  he 
brought  our  mother  home,  and  the  people  took  our  horses  out  of 
the  carriage,  and  dragged  the  bride  and  bridegroom  home. 

That  is  only  twenty  years  ago.  Whence,  then,  this  sudden 
and  rapid  decline  in  the  fortunes  of  our  house?  Alas!  I  scarcely 
know.  My  father  has  never  entered  into  an  explanation  of  the 
causes  of  our  poverty,  though  he  occasionally  recurs,  with  min- 
gled sorrow  and  bitterness  to  the  fact.  As  for  Gay,  she  cannot 
give  us  absolute  information,  but  thinks  that  at  our  gi-and- 
father's  death  his  affairs  were  found  in  an  unsatisfactory  state, 
and  that  papa,  in  the  hope  of  setting  matters  straight,  specu- 
lated, and  thereby  brought  the  ruin  to  a  climax.  Well,  it  can- 
not be  helped.  One  thing  I  am  quite  satisfied  of— whatever 
papa  did,  lie  did  for  the  best,  and  the  very  cleverest  people  may 
be  misled  sometimes.  I  know  this:  that  his  life  has  been  one 
long  self-abnegation  for  Curly's  sake,  that  somewhere  in  the 
future  he  may  be  able  to  hold  up  his  head  and  take  his  own 
place  in  the  county.  We  have  often  talked  the  dear  fellow's 
prospects  over,  papa  and  I,  and  we  are  both  agreed  that  at  any 
rate  every  sacrifice  must  be  made  for  him.  What  does  it  matter 
about  a  girl '?  but  a  boy,  the  heir  to  a  good  property,  the  head  of 
an  old  house,  how  he  is  brought  up  is  everything!  He  must  go 
to  Eton,  if  papa  and  I  live  on  rabbits  and  pork  all  the  year  round, 
and  have  new  clothes  once  in  three  years. 

And  how  we  sit  in  the  twilight,  the  dear  dad  and  I,  talking 
over  our  darling's  future,  and  of  his  sayings  and  doings  when  he 
Avas  last  at  home!  Sometimes  papa  says,  stroking  my  hair  as  I 
sit  at  his  feet: 

"  Di,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  it's  quite  fair  on  you;  you  ought  to 


DIANA    CAREW.  7 

go  to  school,  or  have  masters  at  home,  or  do  something  for  your 
education." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  I  answer,  deprecatingly,  "  I  am  sure  I  know  as 
much  as  most  girls  of  my  age.  I  have  kept  up  everything  I  used 
to  learn  with  Miss  Carter,  except "  (sighing)  "geography  and 
arithmetic.  I  always  did  hate  those.  I  speak  pretty  good 
grammar,  don't  I,  dear  ?  I  write  a  decent  hand.  I  know  enough 
French  to  get  on  abroad,  if  I  ever  went  there— which  I  don't  sup- 
pose I  shall.  I  can  play  pretty  well  on  the  piano,  and  I  think  " 
(a  smile  of  conscious  vanity  parting  my  lips) — "I  think  I  can 
sing  a  little." 

"  Ay,"  says  papa,  smiling,  "  you  can  that;  and  "  (patting  me  on 
the  shoulder)  "  I  don't  think  all  the  Italian  masters  in  the  world 
could  make  my  little  nightingale's  voice  sweeter." 

I  blush  with  pleasure;  no  praise  comes  so  sweet  to  me  as  my 
father's.  My  voice  is  my  one  little  possession,  my  ewe  lamb, 
the  great  delight  of  my  life.  For  hours  I  am  wont  to  sit  at  our 
old-fashioned  piano,  that  has  been  a  good  one  once,  and,  like  all 
good  things,  bears  to  the  end  the  trace  of  its  better  days.  I  si» 
and  sing  the  daylight  into  twilight,  the  twilight  into  evening^ 
sometimes  jocund  melodies,  but  oftener  plaintive  ones,  until  I 
am  carried  out  of  myself  into  sweet  dreams  and  happy  trances 
and  shadowy  griefs,  that  have  as  yet  no  form,  but  only  guess  at 
sorrow.  For  I  have  never  been  unhappy  in  my  life. 

My  mother  died  when  I  was  too  young  to  remember  her;  and 
papa  and  Curly  and  I  have  always  been  so  happy  together.  Of 
course,  I  have  had  my  troubles;  for  instance,  when  Curly  first 
went  to  school,  and  once  when  Gay  was  ill;  and  when  niy  pet 
cat  was  shot  by  the  keeper,  I  thought  my  heart  was  broken. 
Our  poverty  has  never  made  me  unhappy.  Sometimes  I  have 
longed  very  much  for  things — most  of  all,  for  a  horse  to  ride;  but 
I  always  consoled  myself  by  thinking  that  it  was  no  good  wish- 
ing for  what  one  could  not  have,  so  my  desires  melted  back  into 
contentment  with  my  lot.  I  have  papa  and  Curly  and  Gay — the 
three  very  dearest  creatures  in  the  world ;  I  have  the  handsom- 
est and  faithfulest  pug  ever  known;  and  a  tabby  cat  lined  with 
apricot,  as  Curly  describes  its  tawny  bosom,  that  I  would  not 
change  far  any  other  living  cat. 

Que  vonlez-vous  ?  One  cannot  have  everything,  I  am  poor. 
I  have  no  fine  clothes  to  wear,  no  horses  to  ride,  no  lovers  to 
flatter  me,  but  I  am  happy;  and  Lady  Gwyneth,  who  has  all  that 
money  can  buy,  is,  by  her  own  confession,  I  have  heard,  the 
most  miserable  woman  alive. 

Apropos  of  lovers,  I  am  ashamed  almost  to  say  it;  but  I  should 
— oh,  I  should  like  to  have  a  lover;  only  I  have  done  so  long 
without,  that  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  get  one  to  please  me  now, 
Literally  and  truthfully,  I  don't  think  I  have  spoken  to  a  man, 
oxcept  the  clergyman  and  the  doctor,  since  I  was  grown  up — not 
even  a  boy,  one  of  Curly's  schoolfellows^or  naturally  enough, 
he  does  not  care  to  ask  them  home;  and  I  am  sure  it  would  put 
us  all  out  very  much  to  entertain  them.  / 

Our  home  is  a  fine,  handsome  old  place,  but  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  it  is  shut  up,  and  we  only  live  in  the  smaller  rooms,  with 


8  DIANA  CAREW. 

the  exception  of  the  dining-room,  full  of  splendid  old  carved 
oak,  and  family  portraits,  where  we  always  take  our  meals.  It 
is  a  fine  room.  We  have  a  great  screen  put  half-way  across,  to 
make  it  less  cold  and  vast  in  the  winter.  But  there  are  curious 
contrasts  in  it.  There  is  the  grand  carved  chimney-piece  that 
reaches  the  ceiling,  and  the  old  brass  dogs  on  the  hearth;  there 
are  the  numerous  portraits  of  former  Carews:  there  is  the 
splendid  old  sideboard  and  bookcase,  and  the  fine  pair  of  bronzes 
which  have  always  filled  niy  youthful  soul  with  admiration.  But 
in  contrast  there  is  the  poor,  threadbare  old  Turkey  carpet,  that 
Gay  has  so  often  repaired  on  her  knees  with  colored  worsteds, 
until  she  has  declared  her  back  was  fain  to  break;  there  are  the 
old  curtains,  which  tradition  says  were  once  magnificent  crimson 
velvet,  but  which  have  now  assumed  the  yellowish-brown  hue 
one  sees  sometimes  in  the  hangings  of  a  very  old  pulpit  in  a  very 
old  church;  the  gilding  of  most  of  the  frames  is  very  dingy,  and 
the  ceiling,  and  what  little  is  visible  of  the  walls,  sadly  requires 
paint  and  whitewash.  The  leather  on  the  handsome  old  chairs 
is  in  a  melancholy  condition:  age  and  the  vagaries  of  numerous 
kittens  have  done  their  fell  work  upon  them,  and  now  nothing  but 
the  backs  of  them  are  really  respectable.  The  room  is  certainly 
a  wreck,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it;  but  we  are  all  so  used  to  it, 
I  don't  believe  we  ever  do  think  of  it.  And  then  we  don't  sit 
there,  but  in  a  much  snugger  room  that  used  to  be  the  morning- 
room,  and  where,  though  the  furniture,  and  the  carpet,  and  the 
curtains  are  old  too,  they  look  more  comfortable  and  homely. 
I  think  papa  would  have  let  the  house  long  ago — the  rent  of  it 
would  have  made  us  comparatively  rich— only  there  is  a  clause 
somewhere  forbidding  it;  and  I  do  verily  believe  we  would  all 
rather  be  poor  and  live  there  ourselves  than  feel  it  was  in  the 
hands  of  strangers. 

We  have  the  greatest  veneration  for  the  family  heirlooms,  the 
old  oak  and  pictures,  and  plate  and  china,  of  which  there  is 
great  store,  and  which  once  now  and  again  Gay  allows  us  to 
feast  our  eyes  upon.  I  suppose  papa  does  not  feel  being  poor 
dreadfully.  Gay  thinks  he  does:  she  was  under-nurse  to  him 
when  he  was  a  baby,  and  has  lived  in  the  family  ever  since. 
But  he  nearly  always  seems  cheerful,  and  goes  about  with  his 
gun,  or  works  in  the  garden,  where  we  both  help  him,  or  sits  in 
his  study,  reading  and  writing.  He  hardly  ever  alludes  to  our 
poverty :  when  he  does,  it  is  with  such  bitter  sadness,  it  makes  my 
heart  bleed  for  him.  Dear,  darling  father!  I  do  believe  he  blames 
himself,  and  thinks  that  we  are  suffering  from  his  fault;  and  I  long 
sometimes  to  thro^1  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  tell  him  how 
satisfied  we  are,  Curly  and  I;  that  all  he  has  done  was  for  the 
very  best,  only  I  would  not  have  him  think  there  had  ever  been 
even  question  of  it  in  our  minds.  Why  should  he  feel  so  dread- 
fully for  us,  when  I  am  sure  we  do  not  for  ourselves  ?  Curly  is  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long;  what  boy  is  not  at  Eton  ? — and  he  is  always 
thoroughly  delighted  to  come  home — poor  though  home  may  be. 
He  knows  there  are  no  hearts  elsewhere  that  beat  so  lovingly 
and  tenderly  for  him.  As  for  me,  I  am  never  idle  a  moment,  so 
1  cannot  be  unhappy;  \\  hat  with  my  household  cares — and  really 


DIANA    CAREW.  9 

a  good  deal  of  contriving  is  required  to  make  ends  meet  to  provide 
not  only  for  our  own  small  household,  but  for  the  sick  and  poor 
who  often  stand  in  need  of  our  help,  and  rather  than  send  whom 
empty  away,  papa  would  go  dinnerless  himself. 

Then  there  are  all  my  pets  to  be  looked  after— my  cat  and  kit- 
tens, the  two  retrievers,  my  pug,  Curly's  ferrets  to  be  taken  for 
their  daily  airing.  They  are  as  friendly  and  affectionate  as  the 
kittens,  and  I  might  like  them  better  if  their  coats  did  not  exhale 
such  a  very  pungent  odor.  Then  there  is  my  old  pony  Tommy, 
whom  I  ride  and  drive,  and  make  a  general  convenience  of,  and 
my  devotion  to  whom  is  not  one  whit  lessened  by  my  con- 
tempt for  his  powers  and  appearance.  Poor  old  fellow!  he  is 
twenty-one—just  of  age,  we  laugh  and  say,  and  he  is  more  often 
turned  out  than  not.  What  can  you  expect?  Our  establish- 
ment consists  of  Gay,  the  cook,  and  a  very  young  housemaid 
and  parlor-maid  combined,  who  is  a  thorn  in  Gay's  side,  and 
more  plague  to  her,  as  she  is  wont  irritably  to  aver,  than  if  she 
had  to  do  the  whole  of  the  work  herself.  It  is  a  come-down  for 
the  Carews,  I  suppose;  but  I  do  not  remember  anything  different; 
so  it  troubles  me  but  very  little.  I  have  my  ideas  of  love,  riches, 
and  grandeur,  but  they  are  mostly  derived  from  historical  novels 
and  Gay's  old  stories,  certainly  not  from  any  experience  I  have 
had  of  any  one  of  them. 

I  am  not  going  to  pretend  for  an  instant  that  I  never  think 
about  my  personal  appearance,  nor  speculate  upon  my  looks, 
nor  what  effect  they  are  likely  to  produce  upon  the  other  sex, 
when  they  are  blessed  with  a  sight  of  me.  I  do  not  believe  there 
is  a  girl  living  who  is  utterly  devoid  of  the  instinct  of  vanity. 
Often  and  often  I  have  sat  before  the  glass  and  arranged  my  hair 
in  different  fashions,  and  tried  on  the  old  brocaded  gowns  of  my 
grandmother,  which  I  have  coaxed  Gay  to  lend  me  for  an 
afternoon ;  and  once  I  was  so  well  satisfied  with  my  appearance 
that  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse  of  running  down  to  show  my- 
self to  papa,  though  I  fully  expected  to  be  called  a  vain  puss  for 
my  pains.  There  is  a  portrait  in  the  dining-room  of  one  Diana 
Carew  (I  know  not  exactly  what  ancestress  of  mine),  gorgeously 
attired  in  blue  and  white  brocade,  with  pearls  twisted  in  her 
dark  hair. 

It  was  one  wet  autumn  afternoon,  and  I  was  sitting  at  Gay's 
feet  as  she  darned  the  eternal  stockings,  and  she  was  regaling 
me  with  stories  of  our  departed  glories. 

"  I've  got  the  very  gownd  put  away  up-stairs  as  Miss  Diana, 
that  was  your  great — no,  it  must  have  been  great-great — well, 
I'm  not  certain,  so  I'll  say  your  great-grand-aunt — was  painted 
in." 

"What!"  I  cry,  rising  excitedly  to  my  feet.  "  You  wicked, 
unkind,  good-for-nothing  old  creature!  and  you  have  never 
shown  it  to  me  all  this  time!  I  have  a  great  mind  to  shake 
you!"  (standing  threateningly  over  her). 

"  Well  "  (with  a  benevolent  smile,  and  no  appearance  of  fear 
en  her  kind  old  face),  "  I  always  thought  I  would  keep  it  as  a 
treat;  so  now,  if  you  like  "  (taking  her  hand  out  of  the  foot  of 


10  DIANA    CAREW. 

the  stocking),  "  I'll  get  my  keys,  and  you  shall  have  the  treat, 
my  dear." 

So,  preceded  by  my  impatient  footsteps,  with  the  pug  follow- 
ing excitedly  at  my  heels,  she  ascends  the  broad  staircase,  tra- 
verses the  long  gallery,  and  unlocks  the  door  of  one  of  the 
principal  bedrooms. 

"  Faugh!"  I  say,  holding  my  nose,  "  how  fusty  it  smells!" 

"  Ah!"  responds  Gay,  who  always  has  a  reminiscence  for 
every  disparaging  remark  of  mine,  "it  wasn't  fusty  when  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Blankshire  slept  here  the  night  of  your 
papa's  coming  of  age.  Well  I  mind  saying,  as  I  went  in  to  look 
at  it  before  their  graces  arrived,  I'd  be  bound  they  didn't  sleep 
in  a  handsomer  room  at  home." 

"  H'm!"  I  say;  with  a  doubtful  glance  around  me,  as  she  un- 
does a  shutter  and  lets  in  the  daylight. 

It  is  a  vast  and  lofty  room.  An  enormous  oak  bedstead,  with 
lions  couchant  at  the  foot,  stands  in  the  center;  a  gigantic  ward- 
robe lines  nearly  one  side;  all  the  furniture  gives  one  an  idea  of 
having  been  made  for  a  larger  race  of  men.  There  is  no  carpet 
on  the  polished  floor,  the  old,  heavy-framed  mirrors  are  dim 
and  lusterless,  and  altogether  the  room,  in  spite  of  its  gloomy 
grandeur,  has  a  wreck-like  appearance.  My  voice  sounds  pre- 
ternaturally  loud  and  hollow  as  I  make  unflattering  comments 
upon  the  furniture  generally  and  particularly. 

I  wait  with  breathless  eagerness  as  Gay  unlocks  the  wide  door 
of  the  wardrobe,  pulls  out  the  heavy  drawers,  and  proceeds  to 
unfold  from  its  numerous  wrappings  the  treasure  my  eyes  de- 
sire to  behold. 

<%  There,"  she  says,  triumphantly,  as,  having  taken  off  the  last 
fold  of  silver  paper,  she  holds  it  before  my  longing  eyes. 

"  It's  very  scanty,"  I  remark,  disparagingly. 

"Well,  my  dear"  (tartly),  "when  gownds  was  made  of  such 
splendid  material,  they  didn't  want  to  cover  them  all  over  with 
flounces  and  furbelows.  It'll  stand  by  itself,  this  will." 

"Nearly,"  I  assent.  "It  is  handsome,  certainly"  (regarding 
the  stiff  brocade  with  my  head  on  one  side).  "  Nurse,  I  shall  try 
it  on." 

But  Gay  regards  my  proposition  almost  in  the  light  of  sacrilege. 
However,  after  infinite  coaxing,  I  get  not  only  her  permission 
but  her  help.  Rapture!  It  fits  me  as  if  it  had  been  made  for 
me.  I  rush  off  to  my  own  room,  Gay  loudly  expostulating  at 
my  heels.  There  I  build  my  hair  up  on  high  after  the  manner 
of  Miss  Diana  below-stairs,  twist  a  string  of  mock  pearls  I  pos- 
sess among  other  treasures  through  it,  and,  this  done,  survey 
myself  with  extreme  content  in  the  long  glass  which  hangs  on 
the  wall  of  my  room. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure!"  says  Gay,  in  a  voice  wherein  surprise  and 
admiration  contend  for  mastery.  "Any  one  might  think  you'd 
just  stepped  out  of  the  picture!" 

"  Would  not  they?"  I  exclaim,  in  great  glee,  parading  up  and 
down  in  my  creamy  train  and  sky-blue  bunched-up  tunic,  not  at 
all  so  unlike  the  fashion  of  to-day.  "  I  shall  go  and  show  my- 
self to  papa." 


DIANA    CAREW.  11 

"No,  don't  you  now,  Miss  Di!  don't  you!"  entreats  Gay. 
"  Your  papa  might  be  displeased  with  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  him  displeased  in  your  life,  vou  old 
goose  ?"  I  cry,  gayly,  eluding  her  grasp,  and  rushing  off  as  well 
as  my  train  will  permit,  the  pug  in  full  pursuit. 

"  You'll  sile  the  bottom  on  those  stairs!"  cries  Gay  after  me,  in 
an  agonized  tone.  "  That  Sally  never  half  does  them  down." 

But  I  am  already  outside  the  study  door.  It  is  getting  dusk, 
twilight  is  creeping  on  at  least  half  an  hour  before  its  time  this 
dull  afternoon,  and  I  quietly  open  the  door,  and,  with  a  slow  step, 
and  somewhat  beating  heart,  advance  to  my  father.  He  looks 
up  with  a  bewildered  glance:  then  a  curious  look  comes  into  his 
face,  a  proud,  fond,  tender  kind  of  smile,  then  he  puts  his  hand 
before  his  eyes,  and  rising  abruptly,  turns  to  the  window. 

I  grow  red  and  pale  by  turns.  What  have  I  done?  Why  is 
h<>  so  moved?  A  thousand  thoughts  flash  through  my  mind  in 
an  instant.  Have  I  reminded  him  of  my  mother?  But  no; 
Curly  is  like  her.  I  take  after  him. 

"Oh,  papa,"  I  cry,  running  toward  him,  "I  am  so  sorry! 
Have  I  vexed  you?" 

"Vexed  me!"  he  answers,  turning  and  stretching  out  his 
arms,  to  which  I  fly.  "  No,  indeed,  child.  But  when  I  see  " 
(his  voice  trembling)  "  how  well  fine  clothes  become  my  little 
girl,  it  makes  me  grieve  to  think  that  but  for  my  folly  she  would 
have  had  them  to  wear  always." 

"  Oh.  papa,  why  do  you  say  such  things  ?  I  hate  fine  clothes!'' 
I  cry,  passionately.  "'Horrid,  uncomfortable,  stiff,  ugly  things! 
I  should  be  very  sorry  to  wear  them  often.  I  will  run  and  get 
out  of  them  as  quickly  as  I  can.'' 

As  I  go  crestfallen  up-stairs,  I  hate  myself  for  my  stupid,  un- 
seemly joke;  my  vanity  has  melted  into  shame  and  regret. 
Probably  my  feelings  are  depicted  on  my  face,  for,  as  I  enter  my 
bedroom.  Gay,  who  is  awaiting  me,  says,  reproachfully: 

"  There,  now,  Miss  Di!  I  told  you  your  papa  wouldn't  like  it.?' 

I  tear  off  my  finery  in  a  rage,  and  fling  it  on  the  bed,  where 
Gay  pats  and  pulls  it  out  apologetically.  Then  I  bury  my  face 
in  my  pillow,  and  cry  bitterly. 

CHAPTER  III. 
DIANA'S   STORY. 

THE  eventful  day  arrives.  All  obstacles  have  been  surmounted, 
even  the  important  one  of  my  dress,  though  I  must  confess  the 
ten  pounds  did  not  go  nearly  so  far  as  I  had  expected.  How- 
ever. I  am  equipped  so  that  no  one  can  carp  very  much  at  my 
attire,  and  the  reflection  that  gives  me  greatest  satisfaction  is, 
that  my  clothes  are  undeniably  well  made,  and  fit  to  perfection. 
Elise  herself  could  not  have  done  more  for  my  figure.  It  so  hap- 
pens that  the  daughter  of  an  old  servant,  who  lived  with  the 
family  in  its  palmy  days,  is  home  for  her  holiday.  She  is  lady's 
maid  in  what  her  mother  is  pleased  to  term  a  very  grand  family, 
and,  as  we  have  always  kept  up  friendly  relations,  Hester  has 
most  good-naturedly  offered,  on  hearing  of  my  projected  visit, 


12  DIANA    CAREW. 

to  make  my  dresses.  When  she  brings  them  home  I  am  so  daz- 
zled with  the  magnitude  of  my  possessions  that  Hester  is  obliged 
to  give  me  a  good-natured  hint  not  to  be  too  much  elated  until  I 
have  seen  the  splendor  of  the  other  guests. 

Warrington  Hall  is  ten  miles  distant,  and  we  have  post-horses 
from  the  neighboring  town  put  to  our  old  brougham  (another 
dreadful  expense,  I  think,  lugubriously). 

Curly  is  in  tremendous  spirits,  which  I  cannot  say  I  altogether 
share.  I  feel  rather  frightened,  and  a  little  sad,  for  I  have  never 
left  papa  before.  My  eyes  are  so  dim  I  can  hardly  see  his  dear, 
kind  face,  as  he  comes  to  see  us  off,  and  wishes  us  a  cheery  good- 
bye and  a  pleasant  visit. 

"  Oh,  Curly,  how  dull  papa  will  be  without  us!"  I  say,  in  a 
melancholy  voice,  as  we  turn  away  from  the  door. 

"  Not  he;  he  is  delighted  we  are  going.  It  is  just  the  very 
thing  he  wished  for  you:  he  told  me  so  this  morning.  I  say,  Di, 
let's  look  at  you.  What  a  swell  you  are!" 

"  Am  I  not?"  (proudly  glancing  down  at  myself  with  consid- 
erable satisfaction).  "  But  I  dare  say,"  I  add,  mindful  of  Hes- 
ter's warning — "  I  dare  say  I  shall  not  think  much  of  myself 
when  I  see  the  others." 

"  Oh,"  replies  Curly,  patronizingly,  "  girls  can't  be  expected 
to  dress  like  married  women,  which  I  expect  they'll  mostly  be; 
and  you  look  like  a  lady,  and  that's  the  great  thing." 

"  Curly,"  I  hazard  presently,  as,  though  he  is  nearly  two  years 
my  junior,  I  look  up  to  him  in  compliment  to  his  having  seen  a 
great  deal  more  of  the  world,  "  do  you  feel  at  all  nervous  ?" 

"  Nervous!"  (with  considerable  scorn),     "  What  about?" 

"  Of  course"  (apologetically)  "'  you've  stayed  in  big  houses  be- 
fore, but  I  haven't;  and,  Curly,  dear  "  (blushing),  "  if  you  should 
see  me  do  anything  awkward,  or  not  quite  right,  you'll  be  sure 
and  tell  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will;  but  you've  only  got  to  be  natural,"  responds 
my  young  brother,  oracularly,  "and  do  just  as  you  would  at 
home." 

I  feel  rather  doubtful  about  the  last  part  of  the  sentence,  re- 
membering how  I  am  wont  to  scamper  about  the  house,  race  up- 
stairs two  and  three  at  a  time,  sing  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and 
give  my  opinion  freely  and  unhesitatingly  upon  every  subject. 

"  I  wonder  who  will  be  there,"  I  say. 

"  Oh,  the  Desboroughs,  most  likely,  and  perhaps  some  of  the 
Montagus;  or  they  may  not  have  any  county  people  at  all.  I 
don't  know.  I  should  think  Lady  Gwyneth  will  be  there.  She 
and  old  Warrington  are  great  allies." 

"  I  hope  she  will.     I  want  to  see  her,"  I  reply. 

We  have  arrived.  From  the  cold  and  darkness  we  are  ushered 
into  a  blaze  of  warmth  and  light.  My  shyness  prevents  me  from 
mastering  any  details  at  first.  I  only  know  that  my  dazzled 
senses  are  filled  with  new  ideas  of  luxury,  comfort,  costliness. 
A  soft,  rose-colored  light  pervades  the  room,  there  is  a  delicate 
scent  of  hot-house  flowers,  and  round  the  blazing  fire  is  a  large 
group  of  people,  talking  with  considerable  animation.  Out  from 
the  group,  from  behind  a  shining  silver  tea-service,  a  tall,  gra- 


DIANA    CAREW.  18 

cious-looking  woman  comes  toward  me — not  young,  but  still 
handsome,  and  with  an  unmistakable  air  of  grande  dame,  that 
even  unsophisticated  I  recognize  at  once.  She  greets  us  with 
kindly  -warmth,  draws  me  forward  to  the  circle  round  the  fire, 
utters  a  few  words  of  presentation  to  the  rest  of  the  company, 
which  I  am  too  nervous  to  gather,  and  seats  herself  beside  me 
on  a  sofa. 

"  I  am  so  disappointed  you  have  not  brought  your  father,"  she 
whispers,  kindly.  "  You  must  entire  him  out  a  little  by  degrees; 
we  cannot  have  Carew  Court  made  into  a  hermitage,  such  a  gay. 
pleasant  house  as  it  used  to  be."  And  then  she  asks  me  about 
the  journey,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  begin  to  feel  at  home,  and 
my  first  agony  of  shyness  subsides.  The  rest  of  the  party  have 
relapsed  into  their  cheery  talk;  the  charmed  circle  has  another 
addition  in  Curly,  who  is  perfectly  at  his  ease.  "  Hector,"  says 
Mrs.  Warrington,  presently,  "  wUl  you  pour  Miss  Carew  out  a 
cup  of  tea  ?"  ~ 

A  tall,  dark  man  separates  himself  from  the  rest  and  obeys 
Mrs.  Warrington's  behest.  "When  he  brings  it  I  am  introduced 
to  him.  "  My  dear,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Montagu  to  you.  Hec- 
tor, this  is  a  neighbor  of  yours  as  well  as  ours.  Miss  Carew." 

Mr.  Montagu  sits  down  on  the  other  side  of  me.  He  has  a  dis- 
tinguished face,  though  not  exactly  a  handsome  one;  but  there 
is  something  awe-inspiring  about  him.  I  feel  afraid  of  him. 
He  wears  a  cold,  almost  contemptuous  expression,  and  yet  now 
he  smiles  it  is  not  an  unpleasant  face,  rather  the  reverse;  but  I 
do  not  feel  at  ease  with  him.  He  utters  a  few  cold,  civil  words 
to  me,  and,  to  my  chagrin,  Mrs.  Warrington  leaves  us  and  goes 
put  of  the  room.  Is  it  possible  that  my  face  betrays  my  feel- 
ings? Mr.  Montagu  fixes  his  keen  eyes  upon  me,  and  his  mouth 
curves  with  a  smile  that  is  by  no  means  a  genial  one. 

"  Dp  not  be  afraid,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice;  "  I  dare  say  Mrs. 
"SVarrington  will  return  soon." 

To  say  that  I  am  embarrassed  is  to  give  but  poor  and  inade- 
quate expression  to  the  confusion  that  covers  me.  Seeing  it,  he 
adds,  hastily: 

"  I  was  only  joking;  but  indeed  you  did  look  frightened.  Peo- 
ple are  rather  by  way  of  being  afraid  of  me  at  first,  but  really 
and  truly  "  (laughing)  "  I  am  not  so  awful  as  I  look." 

"  Mr.  Montagu,"  says  a  dark,  imperious-looking  woman  at  this 
moment,  "as  Mrs.  Warrington  has  delegated  the  duty  of  pour- 
ing out  tea  to  you,  perhaps  you  will  come  and  attend  to  my 
wants." 

There  is  another  man  at  her  elbow,  doing  nothing:  but  I  am 
very  glad  to  have  Mr.  Montagu's  attention  distracted  from  me. 
He  rises,  not  very  graciously,  and  I,  being  left  to  myself,  take 
the  opportunity  of  making  a  closer  inspection  of  my  entourage. 
The  pleasant,  becoming  light  issues  from  two  rose-shaded  lamps, 
the  delicate  odors  from  a  profusion  of  choice  flowers  scattered 
liberally  about  the  frequent  tables,  the  hearth  is  piled  with  blaz- 
ing logs,  every  object  glows  with  rich  warm  tints.  The  thick 
carpet,  that  feels  like  a  well-kept  lawn  to  my  unaccustomed 
feet,  is  crimson,  the  hangings  and  furniture  are  a  lovely  shade  of 


14  DIANA    CAREW. 

blue,  the  doors  and  cornices  are  black  and  gold,  and  there 
are  also  quaint-shaped  tables  and  ornaments.  You  can  scarcely 
see  the  creamy  walls  for  the  little  gems  of  pictures  in  heavy  gold 
frames,  the  mirrors,  velvet  brackets,  china  plates,  vases,  cups 
and  saucers  that  cover  them.  An  immense  tiger-skin  rug  lies 
in  front  of  the  fire,  and  there  are  draped  velvet  curtains  to  the 
mantel-piece. 

Incidentally  I  observe  the  rest  of  the  party.  The  small  fair 
woman  in  a  riding-habit,  talking  volubly  and  laughing  rather 
loudly,  is  of  course,  Lady  Gwyneth  Desborough.  She  has  fail- 
hair,  cut  short  like  a  boy's,  a  retrousse  nose,  and  scarcely  that 
aristocratic  air  and  tone  I  should  have  expected  from  an  earl's 
daughter. 

At  this  period  of  my  life,  utterly  untaught  by  experience, 
my  ideas  savor  somewhat  of  foregone  conclusions.  I  imagine 
that  all  people  of  noble  birth  must  have  distinguished  manners 
and  perfect  breeding;  just  as  I  am  persuaded  all  clergyman  must 
be  pious,  all  women  modest,  all  servants  respectful,  and  so  on. 
I  do  not  particularly  admire  Lady  Gwyneth,  nor  does  she  seem 
to  me  very  ladylike,  in  spite  of  her  birth.  It  may  be  difficult  to 
manage  a  habit  gracefully  in  the  room,  but  she  need  not  sit 
cross-legged,  and  lean  back,  with  one  arm  thrown  over  the  sofa; 
indeed,  she  looks  more  like  a  very  small  man  than  a  woman. 
She  is  talking  with  the  utmost  animation  to  two  or  three  men, 
and  employing,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  very  technical  terms;  the 
subject  is  the  day's  run. 

I  feel  rather  glad  papa  is  not  here.  I  think  I  should  feel  a 
little  ashamed  if  he  were.  The  lady  who  has  summoned  Mr. 
Montagu  from  my  side  is  dark  and  handsome,  though  very  slight 
and  thin.  She  is  magnificently  dressed  in  dark  green  velvet  and 
fur,  which  well  become  her  imperial  air.  Her  dark  brows 
nearly  meet  over  her  large  eyes,  giving  a  dissatisfied,  almost 
angry  look  to  the  face  that  well-nigh  amounts  to  a  scowl.  Then 
there  is  a  pretty,  fair  girl,  who  has  been  engaged  in  deepest  con- 
versation with  a  long-mustached  man  ever  since  I  came  in. 
They  are  sitting  rather  apart  from  the  rest;  it  occurs  to  me  that 
they  must  be  engaged. 

There  are  five  men  present;  I  do  not  know  who  they  are    in 
spite  of  Mrs.  Warrington's  introduction.     There  is  only  one  in 
which  I  feel  much  interest.     He  is  talking  to  Lady  Gwyneth- 
and  once  or  twice  our  eyes  have  met— such  kind,  pleasant  eyes' 
though  I  cannot  see  the  color.    The  rest  of  his  face  is  not  ex- 
actly handsome,  but  it  is  the  face  of  a  thorough  gentleman.    Be- 
1  him  is  an  insignificant  little  man,  whom  I  take  to  be  Mr 
ssborough,  from  the  contemptuous  looks  and  words  that  Lady 
rwyneth  now  and  again  throws  at  him  when  he  presumes  to 
am  her  conversation.     He  is  at  this  moment  making  some  re- 
ark  about  his  prowess  in  the  hunting-field;  she  breaks  in  in  a 
rasping,  contemptuous  voice: 

"You  as  near  as  possible  brought  Lady-love  to  grief  to-dav 
if  you  had  quite,  I  should  have  discharged  Stevens  without  a 
character,  for  putting  you  upon  her  with  that  bit." 
Involuntarily  my  eyes  open  and  my  mouth  falls.    Is  that  th« 


DIANA    CAREW.  15 

way  women  In  society  talk  to  their  husbands  ?  I  expect  him  to 
make  some  furious  reply — her  tone  has  made  even  my  neutral 
blood  boil— but  he  only'turns  away  Avith  a  cowed,  uneasy  laugh. 
Involuntarily  I  look  at  my  friend  with  the  kind  eyes  (I  don't 
know  why  I  should  call  him  my  friend,  though,  since  we  have 
not  yet  exchanged  one  word);  they  meet  mine  with  a  half- 
amused,  half-disgusted  smile — the  former,  I  suppose,  called 
forth  by  the  expression  of  amazement  on  my  face,  which  I  has- 
tily endeavor  to  modify. 

Mr.  Montagu,  having  performed  the  duties  required  of  him, 
returns  to  my  side. 

"  A  nice  civil  little  speech  that  of  Lady  Gwyneth's  to  her  lord, 
was  it  not  ?"  he  whispers.  "  Is  that  the  way  you  will  treat  the 
victim  of  your  bow  and  spear?" 

I  looked  up  at  him. 

"  You  seem  to  have  the  gift  of  reading  my  face,"  I  answer, 
with  rather  an  injured  air.  "  Do  you  think  I  shall?  Do  I  look 
as  if  I  should  ?" 

He  smiles;  it  is  not  a  sneer  this  time. 

"  I  don't  think  you  would,  though  your  eyes  look  quite  capa- 
ble of  holding  their  own.  Lady  Gwyneth  does  not  look  like  a 
vixen;  we  are  all  very  much  creatures  of  circumstance,  and  Des- 
borough  is  irritating." 

"  Why  did  she  marry  him? — she  could  never  have  liked  him," 
I  say,  and  then  am  overtaken  with  a  horror  lest  I  have  been  in- 
discreet. 

"At  your  age,  of  course,  you  think  all  marriages  should  be 
love  matches,"  he  says,  eying  me  with  a  certain  curiosity. 

"  Yes — no — I  do  not  know,"  I  stammer. 

"  Well,  there  is  a  couple  of  whom  you  will  quite  approve " 
(indicating  with  his  eyes  the  pair  whom  I  have  already  speculated 
upon);  "  they  are  very  much  in  love,  and  will  not  have  five  hun- 
dred a  year  between  them." 

This  sum  does  not  seem  so  appallingly  small  to  me  as  it  evi- 
dently does  to  him.  Realizing  this  by  a  glance  at  my  face,  he 
continues,  hastily: 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Huntingdon  ?" 

"  The  lady  in  green  velvet  ?" 

"Is  it  green?  I  thought  it  was  black.  She  is  handsome,  is 
she  not  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  trying  to  keep  back  my  voice  under  control 
this  time,  "  very." 

"  Rather  a  hard  face?" 

"  She  is  very  handsome,"  I  say,  resolved  not  to  give  an  opinion 
adverse  to  any  of  the  party. 

"  That  is  her  husband,  Major  Huntingdon,  just  going  to  stir 
the  fire.  They  are  another  attached  couple." 

"  Who  is  that  talking  to  Lady  Gwyneth?"  I  ask,  plucking  up 
courage  to  ask  the  question  I  have  been  dying  to  put  for  the  last 
ten  minutes. 

"The  best  fellow  living — a  very  old  friend  of  mine — Fane — 
Colonel  Rochester  Fane.  His  sister  is  coming  to-morrow— the 
nicest  woman  in  the  world.  I  am  very  glad  for  your  sake  she 


16  DIANA    CAREW. 

is  coining,  for  I  hardly  know  whom  you  would  have  to  frater- 
nize with  else.  Nelly  Gore  is  too  wrapped  up  in  her  soldier;  and 
I  don't  think  you  will  take  much  to  Lady  Gwyneth  or  Mrs. 
Huntingdon." 

"  ISIor  they  to  me,"  I  hazard. 

"  Nor  they  to  you,"  he  acquiesces.  "  I  should  be  rather  sorry" 
(looking  at  me  kindly)  "  if  they  did." 

"My  dear,  will  you  not  like  to  see  your  room?"  says  Mrs. 
Warrington,  coming  up  to  me.  And,  I  assenting,  she  carries 
me  off  to  a  charming  little  room,  all  white  lace  and  pink  rib- 
bons, with  pretty  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls,  and  a  hundred 
elegant  knickknacks  disposed  about. 

I  cannot  but  give  vent  to  my  hearty  admiration. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  my  dear  ?  I  am  very  glad,"  she  says,  kindly. 
And  then  she  draws  me  to  her  and  kisses  me,  and  a  mist  conies 
across  niy  eyes.  "  Your  brother's  room  is  next  door,"  she  tells 
me;  "  I  thought  you  would  like  to  be  together." 

When  she  is  gone,  I  sit  down  by  the  fire  and  begin  to  think. 
How  strange,  how  refined,  how  luxurious  this  new  life  to  which 
I  am  suddenly  introduced  seems!  I  look  around  me,  and  then 
summon  up  the  vision  of  my  own  bare  room  at  home,  with  its 
strips  of  faded  carpet,  its  old  though  clean  dimity  hangings,  and 
its  ponderous  furniture. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  darling  old  home,"  I  say  to  myself,  as  if 
it  were  feeling  a  pang  at  my  comparison,  "  I  love  you  ten  times 
better  than  any  other  place,  though  the  walls  were  gold  and  it 
was  paved  with  diamonds.  You  hold  all  I  love." 

But  all  the  same  I  busy  my  brain  to  think  whether  I  cannot 
take  a  few  hints  away  from  Warrington  for  the  beautifying  and 
improving  of  our  house. 

My  reflections  are  disturbed  by  Curly  coming  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room.  I  try  the  door  of  comunication  between  us. 

"  Who's  there?"  he  shouts. 

"  It's  me — Di,"  I  answer. 

"  Hooray!  Wait  a  minute;  there's  a  key  on  this  side."  And 
in  a  moment  we  are  comparing  notes  on  the  magnificence  of  our 
respective  apartments. 

Curly's  room  is  very  much  like  mine,  except  that  his  walls  are 
adorned  with  pictures  of  horses  and  dogs. 

"  This  is  fine — isn't  it?"  he  cries,  delightedly,  giving  me  a  hug. 
"How  do  you  feel,  Di?  Aren't  you  enjoying  yourself  im- 
mensely f 

"Well,  not  exactly  (doubtfully).  "You  see,  I  have  hardly 
spoken  to  any  one  but  Mrs.  Warrington  yet.  I  love  her,  but  I 
don't  think  I  shall  care  much  about  the  other  women." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Gwyneth  is  awfully  jolly." 

"Is  she?"  I  answer,  dryly.  "I  shouldn't  have  thought  she 
was  an  earl's  daughter." 

"  What!"  he  says,  laughing,  "  did  you  suppose  earl's  daughters 
talked  blank  verse  in  the  bosoms  of  their  families  ?  My  dear 
little  Di,  you'll  find  them  very  much  like  other  people  "  (with  an 
air  of  superiority). 

"  Rather  more  vulgar,  perhaps  ?"  I  suggest, 


DIANA    CAREW.  17 

"  Vulgar!— not  a  bit  of  it.  You  don't  know  anything  about 
society.  People  always  talk  in  that  sort  of  way." 

"Do  they?  Well,  I  must  dress,  or  I  shall  be  late,"  I  say, 
shutting  the  door.  "  Curly,  be  sure  you  don't  go  down  without 
me." 

"  All  right.  I  say"  (through  the  door),  "  shall  I  part  my  hair 
down  the  middle,  or  on  one  side  ?" 

"  Down  the  middle,"  I  reply,  promptly. 

"You  don't  think  I  shall  look  too  much  like  a  girl?'' 
(anxiously). 

"  I  think  you  will  look  more  like  a  girl  than  Lady  Gwyneth," 
I  say,  maliciously.  "  She  wears  hers  on  one  side,  you  know." 

I  do  not  catch  Curly's  rejoinder,  but  the  tone  sounds  rather 
cross. 

"  Never  mind,  dear  boy,"  I  say,  humbly,  opening  the  door 
again.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you." 

"Of  course  not,"  he  rejoins,  heartily.  "Look  alive,  Di,  or 
you'll  be  late.'r 

I  feel  a  very  small  individual  when  we  are  all  assembled  in  the 
handsome  amber  drawing-room,  and  I  see  the  toilets  of  the  other 
women.  Lady  Gwyneth  looks  very  different  from  what  she  did 
an  hour  ago,  and  I  must  confess,  there  is  a  little  something  of 
the  grande  dame  about  her.  She  is  dressed  entirely  in  white — 
the  softest,  finest  muslin  and  lace.  I  know  very  little  about  lace, 
except  that  this  is  Valenciennes,  and  from  the  quantity  and 
quality,  must  be  very  costly.  It  is  quite  the  loveliest  dress  I 
have  ever  seen.  Mrs.  Huntingdon  is  simply  gorgeous.  She 
wears  a  pale,  greenish-blue  satin,  trimmed  with  humming-birds' 
breasts  and  beetles'  wings.  Miss  Gore,  too,  is  elegant.  But, 
though  my  dress  is  plain,  compared  with  the  others,  thanks  to 
Hester  I  do  not  feel  dowdy.  I  am  introduced  to  my  host.  He 
is  a  loud-voiced,  jolly-looking  man — quite  in  the  English  squire 
style,  or,  rather,  what  I  imagine  it  to  be.  He  greets  us  both 
very  kindly  and  cordially,  particularly  Curly,  whom  he  has  seen 
before. 

Dinner  is  announced,  and  I  am  taken  in  by  Major  Huntingdon. 
Here  new  surprises  await  me.  It  seems  like  a  series  of  enchant- 
ments. I  feel  as  Aladdin  must  have  done  in  the  magician's  cave. 
So  occupied  am  I  with  looking  and  wondering  at  all  I  see,  that  I 
scarcely  hear  my  neighbor's  civil  little  remarks,  and  reply,  no 
doubt,  in  a  very  mal  a  propos  manner.  But  as  soon  as  he  is 
served  with  soup,  he  gives  me  up,  and  I  may  make  my  observa- 
tions at  my  leisure.  The  table  yives  me  at  least  ten  minutes'  oc- 
cupation— the  lovely  flowers  and  exquisite  glass  ornaments,  the 
glistening  gold  and  silver  plate.  I  think  of  papa  sitting  down 
alone  to  his  meager,  unbeautiful  meal,  in  our  dull,  bare  dining- 
room.  /  will  have  flowers  on  the  table,  I  say  to  myself.  We 
have  plenty  of  handsome  china  vases,  ?<nd  I  might  have  our  lit- 
tle homely  dessert  decorated  with  pretty  leaves  and  berries.  The 
warmth,  the  light,  the  laughter,  all  seem  wonderfully  pleasant 
to  me;  most  of  all,  I  love  to  catch  Curly's  ringing  voice.  He 
is  sitting  by  Lady  Gwyneth.  Fheard  her  ask  Mr.  Warrington 
to  put  him  next  her,  and,  though  I  feel  a  sort  of  instinctive 


18  DIANA    CAREW. 

dislike  to  her,  I  am  glad  that  she  is  kind  to  him,  since  it  makes 
him  happy. 

The  pictures  on  the  wall,  the  rich  draperies,  the  numerous 
servants  in  their  handsome  liveries,  all  come  in  for  my  observa- 
tion and  admiration;  as  for  the  butler,  I  firmly  believe,  from  his 
distinguished  manners,  that  he  is  a  gentleman  in  reduced  cir- 
cumstances. I  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear  he  had  been  a 
clergyman;  he  pours  out  the  wine  very  much  as  though  he  were 
performing  some  sacred  rite.  Major  Huntingdon  has  quite 
given  me  up;  he  is  absorbed  in  his  dinner.  Most  of  the  men,  I 
notice,  take  a  kindly  interest  in  the  business  on  hand;  some  of 
the  ladies,  also,  are  not  wholly  indifferent  to  or  disdainful  of  it. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

PRESENTLY  I  am  aware  that  the  squeaky  little  voice  of  my 
other  neighbor,  Mr.  Desborough,  is  addressing  me.  His  con- 
versation is  by  no  means  entertaining;  it  consists  solely  and  en- 
tirely of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  upper  ten,  with  which 
the  humblest  village  girl  could  not  be  less  acquainted  than  my- 
self. He  gives  me  a  considerable  amount  of  information  about 
various  members  of  the  aristocracy — what  the  duke  of  this  said, 
how  his  father-in-law  the  earl  did  so  and  so,  and  a  good  deal 
about  his  sisters-in-law,  Lady  Bell,  Lady  Hyacinth,  and  Lady 
Audrey.  I  am  quite  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  society,  but  it  does 
not  strike  me  as  particularly  well-bred  to  bore  a  person  with 
pointless  anecdotes  about  people  they  never  saw  or  heard  of,  nor 
do  I  imagine  a  constant  interlarding  of  the  conversation  with 
people's  titles  to  be  a  proof  of  blue  blood.  Mr.  Desborough's  an- 
tecedents are  unknown  to  me,  but,  whatever  they  may  be,  I 
think  him  a  snob  all  the  same.  \  He  has  got  to  royalty  now.  / 

"  The  Prince  of  Wales  was  saying "  he  begins,  in  his  mean, 

swaggering  voice. 

"  Do  you  Icnow  the  Prince  of  Wales  f  I  interrupt,  so  aston- 
ished at  the  idea  of  his  having  acquaintance  with  royalty  that  I 
rather  forget  my  own  manners.  For  I  am  only  a  little  country 
girl,  and,  in  my  rustic  mind,  royalty  is  elevated  on  such  a  pedes- 
tal that  to  think  of  commonplace  people  being  on  speaking 
terms  with  it  takes  my  breath  away. 

In  my  surprise,  I  speak  in  rather  a  loud  key.  Unfortunately, 
at  this  moment,  there  is  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  and  my  ques- 
tion is  heard  by  every  one  at  the  table.  There  is  a  general  titter. 
Lady  Gwyneth  laughs  aloud,  and  her  unfortunate  little  husband 
crimsons  with  mortification,  as  he  stammers: 

"  Not  exactly — not  personally." 

I  am  quite  as  confused  as  he  is.  I  hate  making  people  uncom- 
fortable, and  feel  dreadfully  ashamed  of  my  gaucherie.  Mr. 
Desborough  does  not  trouble  me  with  any  more  of  his  conversa- 
tion, and,  I  believe,  from  that  moment  hates  me  cordially.  I 
hear  him  say  something  to  his  next  neighbor  in  an  aggressive 
•voice  about  bread-and-butter  schoolgirls,  which,  of  course,  is 


DIANA    CAREW.  1& 

meant  for  me.     I  really  am  very  sorry  for  him.     I  did  not  mean 
to  hurt  his  feelings  as  I  think  he  does  mine. 

"  That  was  one  for  Desborough,"  remarks  Major  Huntingdon, 
in  an  amused  undertone. 

"What  have  I  said?"  I  ask,  hastily;  "  I  am  sure  I  am  very 
sorry." 

"  It  is  worse  than  you  think  for,"  he  whispers,  laughing. 
"Three  years  ago  his  old  father,  who  is  the  biggest  snob  out, 
gave  a  tremendous  entertainment,  and  moved  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  the  prince  there;  but  he  did  not  go.  It  was  a  dreadful 
mortification." 

"  How  sorry  I  am!"  I  murmur,  not  a  bit  amused,  and  longing, 
if  it  would  not  be  adding  insult  to  injury,  to  apologize  to  Mr. 
Desborough. 

"  You  need  not  be  "  (laughing);  "  he  wants  taking  down,  with 
his  insufferable  snobbish  airs;  he  would  not  be  tolerated  but  for 
Lady  Gwyneth." 

Here  Major  Huntingdon's  attention  is  taken  off  by  the  arrival 
of  a  snipe,  and  I  am  left  to  continue  my  wistful  stare  at  the 
clock's  broad  gold  face,  round  which  the  hands  appear  to  travel 
so  slowly.  We  have  already  been  an  hour  and  five  minutes  at 
dinner,  and  it  does  not  seem  near  its  end  yet. 

"  Good  heavens!"  I  think,  "  do  they  have  all  these  dishes  every 
day,  and  can  these  people  always  eat  and  drink  as  they  are  doing 
to-night?" 

I  am  getting  very  tired  of  watching  them,  for,  though  I  have 
an  excellent  appetite,  I  cannot  go  on  eating  forever,  and  after 
soup,  fish,  and  one  entree,  I  came  to  a  standstill.  The  room  is 
getting  warm,  most  faces  are  flushed,  the  mirth  sounds  rather 
boisterous  in  my  unaccustomed  ears,  and  I  am  longing  devoutly 
for  dinner  to  be  over.  I  glance  furtively  at  the  menu.  Mace- 
doine  de  Fruit.  Souffle  glace  a  1'Abricot.  Ramequins,  I  read. 
What  are  ramequins,  I  wonder  ?  And  after  that  there  will  be 
dessert,  I  suppose,  glancing  at  the  pine,  grapes,  and  various  fruits 
and  sweetmeats  which  decorate  the  table. 

I  wearily  resume  my  contemplation  of  the  company.  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  sits  opposite,  and  next  her  is  a  young,  fair,  good- 
looking  man,  whom  I  hear  people  call  Sir  George.  They  have 
been  whispering  together  all  dinner-time:  apparently  they  do 
not  find  it  long.  The  scowl  has  gone  from  her  handsome  face, 
but  I  do  not  altogether  admire  the  expression  that  has  replaced 
it.  I  am  young  and  ignorant,  but  I  know  that  even  I,  who  am 
so  humble  a  personage  compared  with  her,  should  feel  indignant 
if  any  man  looked  at  me  in  the  way  he  does  at  her;  and  how  can 
she  have  so  little  command  over  her  eyes,  with  her  husband 
sitting  opposite  ?  What  is  he  made  of  ?  Does  he  not  see  ?  Is  he 
not  burning,  raging  with  jealousy?  I  glance  furtively  at  him. 
At  this  very  moment  his  eyes,  which  are  traveling  round  the 
table,  rest  on  them,  and  pass  on,  evidently  without  seeing  any- 
thing that  causes  him  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  begin  to  wonder 
whether  there  is  anything  wrong  with  my  own  mind. 

At  last  dinner  comes  to  an  end.  When  the  elaborate  hands 
have  laboriously  worked  themselves  round  to  twenty  minutes  to 


20  DIANA    CAREW. 

ten,  Mrs.  Warrington  inclines  her  head  to  Lady  Gwyneth,  and 
we  are  released.  If  I  yielded  to  my  natural  impulse,  I  should 
jump  up,  probably  oversetting  my  chair,  and  skip  nimbly  across 
the  broad  hall:  but  as  it  is,  I  march  demurely  after  Miss  Gore, 
hoping  she  will  think  fit  to  take  some  little  notice  of  me.  But 
being  engaged  seems  very  preoccupying.  She  seats  herself  list- 
lessly in  a  corner,  and  is  soon  buried  in  thought  (I  suppose  of  her 
soldier,  whom  she  has  not  left  two  minutes).  So  I  betake  my- 
self to  the  conservatory  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  and  lux- 
uriate in  the  sight  and  smell  of  the  sweet,  rare  flowers.  When 
I  return  to  the  fire,  Mrs.  Huntingdon  and  Lady  Gwyneth  are  sit- 
ting on  two  low  chairs,  talking,  Mrs.  Warrington  is  indulging  in 
a  gentle  doze,  and  Miss  Gore  still  maintains  her  pensive  attitude. 
"Charlie  Montagu  is  coming  to-morrow,"  Mrs.  Huntingdon  is 
saying,  in  her  cold,  languid  voice,  as  I  approach.  "  Do  you 
know  him  ?" 

" Brother  of  the  man  who  is  here?"  asks  Lady  Gwyneth. 
"  Yes.     Do  you  not  know  him  ?" 
"No.     What  is  he  like ?" 
"  The  handsomest  man  in  England." 

"  Really!"  (indifferently).  "  I  do  not  care  for  handsome  men. 
What  can  he  do  ?" 

"  Smoke,  drink  champagne,  play  ecarte,  and  allow  himself  to 
be  adored." 

Lady  Gwyneth  utters  an  expression  of  contempt,  in  which  I 
must  say  I  concur. 

"  Doesn't  he  ride,  or  shoot,  or  do  am/thing?" 
"  Oh,  yes,  he  can,  but  I  don't  know  that  he  distinguishes  him- 
self particularly  in  any  sport.     It  is  too  much  trouble.     But 
when  a  man  is  so  good  to  look  at,  he  can  dispense  with  accom- 
plishments." 

Lady  Gwyneth  takes  no  pains  to  repress  the  hearty  scorn  she 
feels  at  this  remark. 

"Why  don't  you  show  him  about  in  a  caravan?"  she  says. 
"  I  suppose  he  is  poor,  with  expensive  tastes,  like  most  younger 
sons;  and  possibly  women  who  expect  nothing  more  of  a  man 
than  that  he  should  be  good-looking  would  not  mind  paying 
their  guineas  for  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  him.  He 
might  smoke  and  drink  champagne,  you  know,  at  the  same 
time." 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  looks  supremely  indifferent  to  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth's  sneer. 

"  I  wonder  you  never  met  him  in  London,"  she  remarks. 
"I  never  was  in  London  for  the  season  before  my  marriage 
last  year." 

"  Really!"  (elevating  her  eyebrows  a  little).  "  What  a  dread- 
ful waste  of  life!" 

"  Rather  what  a  dreadful  waste  of  life  to  be  there!"  retorts 
Lady  Gwyneth.  "I  never  spent  a  stupider  time  in  my  life — 
ambling  up  and  down  the  Row,  or  driving  one's  ponies  half  a 
mile  an  hour  down  the  drive  in  the  afternoon.  I  cannot  con- 
ceive what  pleasure  people  find  in  it." 

"  I  have  no  Amazon  proclivities  myself,"  says  Mrs.  Hunting- 


D1AXA    CARmr.  21 

don,  with  a  slight  yawn;  "  and  I  think  it  the  only  place  to  live 
in.  I  merely  exist* out  of  it." 

I  am  rather  glad  at  this  juncture  a  man  appears  in  the  door- 
way. Neither  of  the  ladies  is  looking  very  amiable,  but,  at 
the  sight  of  broadcloth,  their  faces  undergo  a  transformation. 
Mrs.  Warrington  wakes  up  briskly,  and  Miss  Gore's  eyes  kindle 
with  eager  expectation  as  she  looks  toward  the  door,  through 
which  all  the  black  coats  are  entering,  some  briskly,  some  lan- 
guidly, some  as  if  they  were  glad  to  join  the  ladies,  others  as  if 
they  were  sorry  to  leave  the  wine.?  Sliss  Gore  is  asked  to  sing, 
and  her  soldier  bends  tenderly  over  her  while  she  executes  rather 
an  elaborate  Italian  song.  I  hope  they  won't  ask  me,  in  an 
agony  of  shyness;  but  no  sooner  has  Mrs.  Warrington  thanked 
and  "complimented  Miss  Gore,  than  she  makes  straight  for 
me. 

"  Do  you  sing.  Miss  Carew?  I  am  sure  you  do.  Let  me  send 
for  your  music  ?" 

Here  my  anguish  is  so  great  that  I  do  think  I  might  have  been 
tempted  into  telling  a  falsehood,  had  not  Curly,  whom  I  never 
felt  so  near  hating  in  all  my  life,  interposed. 

"  Sing!— I  should  rather 'think  she  does.  You  must  hear  her, 
Mrs.  Warrington."  I  dart  an  angry  glance  at  him,  to  which  he 
responds  by  the  sweetest  of  smiles.  I  am  led  off  like  a  lamb  to 

-  e  slaughter.  The  room  swims  before  me,  my  hands  shake  as 
if  I  had  the  palsy,  my  teeth  verily  chatter  in  my  head;  how  can 
one  sing  under  such  circumstances?  I  begin  mi^rably,  get 
from  bad  to  worse,  and  come  to  a  lame  and  impotent  conclu- 
sion. 

It  may  be  very  kind  of  the  audience  to  applaud  me  so  heartily; 
no  doubt  it  is  intended  to  be  very  reassuring,  but  it  only  makes 
me  tenfold  more  ashamed  of  myself.  Indeed,  I  have  not  even 
courage  to  leave  the  piano,  and  long  to  turn  myself,  like  Heze- 
kiah,  with  my  face  to  the  wall. 

"  Why,  Miss  Carew,"  cries  my  host,  in  his  jolly  voice,  "  we 
had  no  idea  we  had  such  a  star  down  here  in  the  provinces." 
Star,  indeed!  he  might  have  said  sun,  looking  at  my  flaming 
face.  I  evidently  was  not  meant  for  society;  at  home  I  do  not 
blush  once  in  six  months,  but  since  my  arrival  in  Warrington  I 
have  done  nothing  else.  Whv  was  blushing  invented,  or  why 
cannot  it  be  properly  controlled  for  suitable  occasions,  or  left 
altogether  to  the  mock  modest,  who  would  set  great  value  on 
the  acquirement  To  add  to  my  pleasurable  sensations,  Curly 
comes  up  with  a  flushed,  cross  face. 

"  I  say,  Di,  what  an  awful  mess  you  made  of  it!"  he  ejacu- 
lates, reassuringly.  "Do  show  them  you  can  do  something 
better  than  that!" 

"Eh?  What!"  cries  Mr,  Warrington,  catching  him  by  the 
shoulder,  and  giving  it  a  friendly  shake.  "  You  critical  young 
jackanapes!  What  do  you  know' about  it,  I  should  like  to  know? 
Stick  to  your  football  and  cricket,  and  don't  pretend  to  come  the 
singing-master  over  us." 

"Well,  sir,  I  should  like  you  to  hear  what  she  can  do,"  re- 
sponds Curly,  who,  I  am  glad  to  see,  in  spite  of  his  acquaintance 


22  DIANA    CAREW. 

with  society,  hangs  out  the  same  tokens  of  distress  in  his  cheeks 
that  I  do.     Perhaps  it  runs  in  the  family. 

"  Come,;  Di"  (with  a  frown  and  a  wink),  "  sing  '  Auld  Robin 
Gray,'  or  one  of  those." 

"  Oh,  do,  do! '  cry  half  a  dozen  voices. 

I  look  around  me,  as  I  have  seen  my  cat  do  in  the  yard  when 
two  r  three  strange  dogs  came  in.  If  there  were  any  way  of 
escape,  I  would  flee  incontinently  there  and  then;  but  there  is 
not.  So,  with  il  e  courage  of  despair,  I  say  to  myself,  I  will  do 
better  this  tim  ,  and,  thank  Heaven,  I  do.  Aud  when  I  have 
got  half-way  through  that  fine  old  song,  that,  hackneyed  as  it  is, 
will  always  be  sweet  and  touching,  I  forget  my  audience,  and 
sing  as  I  do  to  myself,  feeling  all  the  while  just  as  heart-broken 
as  if  I  were  tied  to  Auld  Robin,  and  my  Jamie  had  just  taken  his 
one  kiss  and  torn  himself  away.  There  is  no  applause  this  time; 
people  are  egarding  me  curiously,  and  I  am  utterly  surprised, 
as  I  rise,  t  see  Lady  Gwyneth  sitting  near  me  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  her  small  nose  pink  with  suppressed  emotion.  Mr. 
Desborough  is  not  old,  I  think  to  myself,  but  it  occurs  to  me  that 
there  may  perhaps  young  Robins  as  well  as  old  ones. 

1  sink  hyly  down  on  the  nearest  couch,  and  at  this  moment 
Mrs.  Warringt  m  comes  up  with  my  friend.  Yes,  I  know  he  is 
going  to  be  my  friend  by  tha./  inexplicable  feeling  of  attraction 
that  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime  draws  two  strangers  together, 
before  they  have  had  time  to  know  or  even  to  speculate  upon 
each  other. 

"  My  dear,  Colonel  Fane  wishes  to  be  introduced  to  you.  Miss 
Carew,  Colonel  Rochester  Fane." 

Having  performed  this  ceremony,  she  goes,  and  he  seats  him- 
self beside  me. 

•'  I  want  your  advice,  Miss  Carew,"  he  says,  in  an  easy,  off- 
hand manner,  as  though  we  had  known  each  other  for  years. 

"  Mine?"  I  say,  looking  and  feeling  very  much  surprised. 

"  Yes.  How  is  one  to  make  sufficient  distinction  in  one's 
voice  when  one  desires  to  express  extreme  gratitude,  or  has  to 
pronounce  a  mere  formal  compliment,  when  precisely  the  same 
words  are  given  one  to  do  it  in  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand,"  I  answer,  regarding  hint 
doubtfully. 

"For  instance "  (bending  a  little  nearer,  and  speaking  in  a 
lower  key),  il  Miss  Gore's  singing  gave  me  no  pleasure  at  all, 
but  I  was  obliged  to  say,  '  Thank  you:'  yours  gave  me  the  great- 
est pleasure  I  have  had  for  a  long  time,  and  yet  I  can  find  noth- 
ing more  to  say  for  it  than  '  Thank  you '  " 

"  Oh,"  I  answer,  a  little  puzzled  how  to  reply  to  what  I  im 
agine  to  be  the  polite  jargon  of  society,  "  '  Thank  you  is  quite 
enough;  and  I  did  not  sing  it  very  well.  You  know"  (speaking 
with  as  much  confidence  as  if  I  had  known  him  for  years  instead 
of  minutes)  ' '  I  have  never  been  out  before,  and  I  was  so  dread- 
fully nervous." 

"  And  how  do  you  like  your  first  glimpse  of  the  world  ?" 

"  I  like  Mrs.  Warrington  immensely!"  I  reply,  "and  the  house 
is  beautiful!" 


DIANA     CAREir.  23 

He  laughs. 

"  Is  that  all  you  can  say  ?" 

<l  The  fact  is  (apologetically),  "  I  had  never  been  to  a  dinner- 
party before,  and  dinner  seemed  so  very  long.  Is  it  always  so 
long  ?" 

'•  Sometimes  longer,"  he  answers,  laughing.  "  We  got  through 
in  pretty  good  time  to-night,  I  thought.  Why,  we  joined  you  at 
five  minutes  past  ten." 

"  Two  hours!"  I  exclaim.     "  What  a  -waste  of  time!'' 

"  You  don't  care  about  eating,  I  suppose,"  he  continues,  still 
•with  the  same  friendly,  inquisitorial  look  in  his  handsome  eyes. 
"  What  will  you  think  of  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  not  only  en- 
joy my  dinner,  but  look  forward  *  it  /' 

"  Oh,  so  do  I,"  I  answer,  not  at  all  wishing  to  feign  a  delicate 
appetite,  having  a  very  healthy  and  excellent  one.  "Perhaps 
I  should  not  have  found  it  so  long  if  I  had  had  some  one  pleas- 
ant to  talk  to^' 

I  stop,  awkwardly,  thinking  I  have  been  impolitely  frank. 

"  Why.  you  had  Desborough  "  (with  a  smile);  "  was  not  his 
talk  very  entertaining  and  instructive?  Did  he  not  put  you 
through  your  catechism  about  the  nobility  and  landed  gentry  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ?" 

"  Yes;  but  when  he  discovered  my  utter  and  total  ignorance  on 
the  subject  he  desisted.  I  wonder  what  made  Lady  Gwyneth 
marry  him  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  marriage  d& 
convenance  f 

>;  Yes.  I  have — in  France,"  I  cried,  eagerly,  wishing  to  show  I 
am  not  ignorant  upon  every  subject. 

He  laughs  his  pleasant  laugh  again. 

"  You  will  be  surprised,  perhaps,  if  I  tell  you  that  they  some- 
times take  place  in  our  own  country.  Lady  Gwyneth's  was  one. 
She  had  rank  and — well,  I  won't  say  beauty,  but  a  fair  amount 
of  good  looks,  and  he  had  monev.  Do  you  know  his  antece- 
dents?" 

"No." 

"  His  father  was  a  draper,  by  the  name  of  Puggins;  he  specu- 
lated as  well,  and  made  a  tremendous  fortune;  changed  his  name 
to  Desborough,  christened  his  son  Harold  de  Courcy,  and  sent 
him  to  Eton  to  get  licked  into  shape.  They  did  all  they  could 
for  him  thei-e;  but  I  dare  say  you  know  a  homely  proverb  about 
a  silk  purse  ?" 

I  nod  my  head. 

"  A  draper!"  I  say;  for  I  am  afraid,  in  my  ignorance.  lam  far 
behind  my  age,  and  am  imbued  with  rather  a  contempt  for  trade. 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you,"  said  Colonel  Fane,  gravely,  re- 
marking no  doubt  the  expression  of  my  countenance,  "  that  my 
father  was  in  the  same  line  ?" 

"  I  should  not  believe  you,"  I  say,  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion. 

"  Well,  if  he  had  been,"  he  says,  laughing,  "  I  hope  I  should 
not  be  so  ashamed  of  him  as  poor  little  Desborough  is  of  his.  If 
any  one  breathes  the  word  trade,  he  is  ready  to  sink  through 


24  DIANA    CAREW. 

the  earth.  I  don't  suppose  he  has  got  the  yard-measure  or  the 
golden  sheep  in  the  quarterings  of  his  splendid  coat  of  arms." 

"I  think,"  I  utter,  reflectively,  "that  J  should  feel  rather 
ashamed  if  my  father  were  a  draper.  Fancy  papa  a  draper!"  I 
say,  laughing  heartily  at  the  bare  notion. 

"  No,  you  would  not,"  he  answers,  eagerly.  "  Bon  sang  ne 
pent  mentir!" 

"But  in  that  case  it  probably  would  not  be  bon  sang,"  I  re- 
turn. And  then  I  laugh  again  to  myself. 

"  Are  you  trying  to  fancy  your  father  serving  out  a  yard  of 
ribbon  ?"  he  asks. 

"Yes"  (laughing  still),  "  but "  (resuming  my  gravity,  as  the 
proud  blood  rushes  to  my  heart)  "  if  I  saw  my  father  serving 
ribbon  or  "  (with  great  energy)  "  sweeping  a  crossing,  he  would 
still  be  the  finest  gentleman  in  the  land  to  mel" 


CHAPTER  V. 
DI  AN  A'S    STORY. 

"  I  AM  afraid  that  is  the  signal  for  retiring,"  says  Colonel 
Fane,  as  we  see  Mrs.  Warrington  make  a  move.  "You  will  be 
going  to  bed  now." 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  looking  at  the  clock.  "  It  is  very  late — ten 
minutes  past  eleven." 

"  Pray  "  (smiling),  "  what  time  do  you  go  to  bed  at  home  ?" 

"  Oh,  generally  between  half -past  nine  and  ten." 

"  Really!  You  must  get  a  good  deal  of  beauty  sleep.  I  have 
heard  it  is  only  to  be  obtained  before  twelve  o'clock.  Do  you 
know  that  saying  ?" 

"  Yes.    Nurse  always  tells  it  me  when  I  am  late." 

"Oh!  you  have  a  nurse,  have  you?"  (looking  amused).  "By 
the  way,  though,  so  had  Juliet." 

"  And  I  am  older  than  Juliet  by  three  years,"  I  add,  slyly. 
"  Must  not  I  be  a  baby  to  want  a  nurse  at  my  age?" 

"  And  yet,"  he  says,  musingly,  replvingto  the  first  part  of  my 
sentence,  "  I  fancy  Juliet  must  have  been  very  much  more  of  a 
woman  than  you  are." 

I  feel  slightly  offended.  It  is  rather  ignominious  to  be  thought 
young.  I  rise  to  wish  him  good-night. 

"  Good-night,"  he  says,  holding  my  hand  rather  longer  than 
necessary. 

The  next  day  it  pours  in  torrents.  There  is  a  meet  three  miles 
off,  and  most  of  the  party  had  intended  hunting.  A  few  advent- 
urous spirits  appear  in  pink,  but  after  they  have  stood  a  few 
minutes  at  the  window,  dismally  contemplating  the  prospect, 
having  each  and  every  of  them  tapped  the  glass,  and  looked  out 
at  the  hall  door,  to  observe  the  weather  from  a  fresh  point  of 
view,  they  for  the  most  part  make  up  their  minds  that  it  is  hope- 
less, and  fifty  to  one  against  the  hounds  meeting. 

"  Shall  I  go,  or  stay?''  whispers  Colonel  Fane,  who  has  found 
his  way  to  my  side  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  You  will  get  very  wet  if  you  go,"  I  reply,  demurely. 

At  this  moment  Lady  Gwyneth  enters,  fully  equipped. 


DIANA    CAREW.  25 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  going,  Lady  Gwyneth!"  cry 
half  a  dozen  voices,  in  various  accents  of  surprise. 

"  Isn't  everybody  going?"  she  asks,  coolly  taking  her  seat. 

"  Look  at  the  weather!"  "  The  hounds  won't  meet!"  "  What's 
the  use  of  getting  wet  through  ?"  say  voices,  again. 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  afraid  of  a  little  rain,  no  doubt  you  are  all 
better  at  home,"  she  retorts,  contemptuously. 

"I'll  go  if  you  do,  Lady  Gwyneth,"  cries  Curly,  flushing  up, 
and  looking  very  eager. 

"  Oh,  Curly!"  I  utter,  involuntarily. 

"  Bravo! — so  you  shall,"  she  answers,  taking  no  notice  of  me. 
"And  you  shall  ride  Mr.  Desborough's  mare.  I  think"  (con- 
temptuously) "  I  can  answer  for  his  not  being  of  the  party." 

Her  husband  looks  up,  not  very  well  pleased,  but  too  much 
afraid  of  her  to  offer  any  but  the  mildest  opposition. 

"  I  am  sure  the  earl,  your  father "  he  begins. 

"  Pray  leave  the  earl,  my  father,  out  of  the  question  "  (looking 
daggers  at  him).  "  I  am  not  always  bringing  up  your  father, 
the — dear  me,  I  am  afraid  I  was  going  to  say  the  draper!"  (with 
a  short  and  very  unpleasant  laugh).  "  '  Mais  nous  avons  change 
tout  cela.' " 

I  do  not  think  any  one  present  thinks  any  the  more  of  Lady 
Gwyneth  for  this  outrageous  speech;  indeed,  I  fancy  she  is 
rather  ashamed  of  it  herself,  for  she  says,  hastily : 

"  Come,  Mr.  Warrington,  the  weather  won't  keep  you,  I  know. 
If  the  hounds  don't  meet  we  can  turn  tail  and  come  back,  at  all 
events,  we  shall  have  had  a  ride.  I  never  take  off  my  bebit 
when  I  have  once  put  it  on." 

"All  right,  Lady  Gwyn!"  cries  the  jolly  voice  of  our  host, 
"  I'm  your  man. 

"  '  If  you  will,  you  will,  we  may  depend  on't,' 

I  suppose.    How  soon  shall  I  order  the  horses  ?'' 

"  Curly,"  I  say,  in  a  small  voice,  my  anxiety  overcoming  my 
shyness,  "if  Mr.  Warrington  is  going,  there  is  no  necessity  for 
you  to  go.  You  know  you  have  rather  a  cough." 

"  Oh,  yes,  stop  at  home,  and  put  your  feet  in  mustard-and  • 
water,  and  let  your  sister  give  you  gruel,"  sneers  Lady  Gwyneth; 
and,  I  think  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  my  brother  darts  an 
angry  glance  at  me. 

"  Pray  mind  your  own  business,  Di,"  he  says,  crossly. 

At  this  moment  I  hate  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  interposes  Colonel  Fane,  quietly,  "  you 
ought  to  be  tremendously  obliged  to  your  sister  for  being  so 
anxious  about  you.  You  see  "(with  a  little  flash  in  his  eyes), 
•'  it  is  a  matter  of  utter  indifference  to  Lady  Gwyneth  whether 
you  lay  in  consumption  or  a  cough  for  the  winter,  as  long  as  you 
do  her  bidding  when  she  wants  you." 

"Thank  you,  Colonel  Fane,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  coloring  a 
little.  "  You  give  me  a  charming  character." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  if  you  prove  that  it  is  undeserved,"  he 
answers,  with  a  smile. 

"  No  one  shall  accuse  me  of  helping  to  make  a  milksop  of  a 


26  DIANA    CAREW. 

boy,"  she  replies,  defiantly.  "Come,  Mr.  Carew,  are  you 
ready  ?" 

Curly  jumps  up  with  flattered  alacrity,  and  I  feel  discomfited. 

"  Never  mind,  says  Colonel  Fane,  encouragingly,  "  I  dare  say 
he  has  had  many  a  good  wetting  before  now;  and  I  cannot  say 
he  looks  at  all  delicate." 

"  Oh,  no!"  I  answer,  hastily,  "  not  a  bit!  But  one  hears  such 
stories,  you  know;  and  papa  and  I  are  frightened  to  death  if  he 
ails  the  least  thing." 

"  What  a  devoted  family  you  seem!" 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  simply;  "we  all  think  there  is  no  one  like 
each  other." 

The  sentence  is  not  a  very  well-turned  one,  but  it  expresses  my 
meaning,  and  he  seems  to  understand  it. 

"  Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters  ?"  I  ask. 

"  One  sister.  The  only  relation — the  only  near  one,  at  least — 
I  have  in  the  world.  She  is  coming  to-day." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  I  say,  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  I 
shall  like  her.  "  Is  she  like  you?" 

"Why? — would  you  wish  her  to  be?"  (a  little  curiously). 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  frankly,  for  somehow  I  do  not  feel  at  all  shy 
with  him. 

"No,"  he  says,  with  a  sigh,  "she  is  not  much  like  me,  or 
rather  I  am  not  much  like  her.  I  wish  I  were.  She  is,  I  verily 
believe,  the  best  woman  in  the  world." 

"  Then  I  suppose  she  is  not  very  young  or  pretty,"  I  remark, 
with  a  naivete  of  which  I  am  unconscious  for  the  moment. 

"  Don't  the  two  go  together?"  he  asks,  smiling;  then,  looking 
earnestly  at  me,  "  I  am  sure  they  do  sometimes." 

I  blush,  and  am  furiously  angry  with  myself  for  doing  so.  Of 
course  it  looks  as  though  I  take  his  speech  to  myself ;  and  how  on 
earth  can  he  know  whether  I  am  good  or  not  ?  I,  alas!  know  how 
far  short  I  fall  of  meriting  that  desirable  adjective. 

"  She  is  not  what  you  would  call  young,"  Colonel  Fane  pro- 
ceeds. "  I  believe  "  (with  a  smile)  "  young  girls  think  every 
member  of  their  sex  over  five-and-twenty  uninterestingly  old; 
and  she  is  thirty;  but  pretty  she  certainly  is,  if  I  am  to  believe 
the  world's  unanimous  verdict." 

"  I  hope  she  will  like  me,"  I  say,  diffidently,  "  for  I  have  not 
spoken  two  words  to  any  lady  but  Mrs.  Warrington  since  I  en- 
tered the  house." 

"Well,"  he  said,  smiling,  "Miss  Gore  must  be  excused  for 
being  preoccupied;  and  as  for  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Hunting- 
don, they  never  think  of  speaking  to  one  of  their  own  sex  as  long 
as  there  is  a  man  present." 

There  is  a  general  move. 

"  Can  you  play  billiards?"  he  asks  me. 

I  answer  in  the  affirmative,  being  tolerably  proficient  froui 
constant  practice. 

"  Then  come  into  the  billiard-room." 

I  shake  my  head. 

"  I  had  rather  not." 


DIANA    CAREW.  27 

' '  "Why  ?  Mrs.  Huntingdon  will  keep  you  in  countenance.  She 
always  goes  into  the  billiard-room  after  breakfast." 

"Does  she  play?" 

"  No;  but,  as  she  says,  she  loathes  doing  needlework  with  a 
parcel  of  women  in  a  boudoir.  She  never  does  anything,  as  far 
as  I  know,  but  recline,  magnificently  dressed,  in  a  lounging-chair, 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  covered  with  diamonds — and — flirt," 
he  adds. 

I  suppose  I  look  rather  surprised,  for  he  says,  quickly: 

"  No  doubt  you  think  it  rather  strange  for  a  married  woman 
to  flirt,  and  it  slipped  out  unawares  "  (looking  rather  vexed  with 
himself);  "  only  you  cannot  very  well  be  in  the  house  very  long 
with  her  and  not  find  it  out." 

"But  her  husband?"  I  say,  opening  my  eyes;  "does  he  not 
mind?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  I  think.  I  am  not  sure  he  is  even  aware  of 
it." 

"How  dreadful!"  I  ejaculate,  in  so  serious  a  voice  that  he 
laughs. 

"Come," he  says,  "let  us  go  into  the  billiard-room.  How 
many  will  you  give  me  ?" 

The  morning  passes  away  very  quickly  and  pleasantly.  After 
billiards  we  take  to  battledoor  and  shuttlecock — a  game  provo- 
cative of  much  laughter  when  one  is  not  very  proficient,  as 
neither  Colonel  Fane  nor  I  are.  Mrs.  Huntingdon  perfectly  car- 
ries out  the  programme  allotted  to  her. 

"  Di,"  says  my  brother  through  the  keyhole,  as  I  am  arranging 
my  ruffled  locks  before  luncheon — "  Di,  open  the  door." 

I  comply,  and,  the  door  being  opened,  he  gives  me  a  hearty 
embrace. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  I  spoke  so  crossly  to  you  this  morning, 
dear  old  Di!" 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  said  a  harsh  word  hardly  to  me  in 
your  life  before,"  I  reply,  the  tears  starting  to  my  eyes;  "  and  to 
think  she  should  be  the  cause!" 

I  suppose  there  is  a  ring  of  the  contempt  I  feel  in  my  voice, 
for  he  says,  quickly: 

"  Don't  abuse  her,  Di.  She's  an  awfully  kind,  jolly  little 
woman,  and  she  has  asked  me  over  there  to  stay,  and,  by  jingo! 
can't  she  just  ride!" 

My  face  falls — I  don't  know  why;  but,  independently  of  losing 
his  society,  I  hate  the  thought  of  his  going  to  her.  I 'feel  a  de- 
sire to  disparage  her  that  I  never  felt  for  any  one  before;  but 
then  I  have  hardly  ever  seen  any  of  my  own  sex  but  the  rector's 
wife  and  daughters,  and  the  doctor's  sister. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  everything  she  does  nice?"  I  say.  "  I 
suppose "  (raising  my  voice  a  little)  "  you  think  it  was  nice  of 
her  to  say  what  she  did  to  her  husband  at  breakfast  ?" 

"  Xo,  I  don't;  but  you  have  no  idea"  (earnestly)  "  what  a  mis- 
erable life  hers  is.  He  is  such  a  sickening  little  cad!" 

My  lip  curls  in  scorn.  My  opinion  of  Lady  Gwyneth  is  in  no 
*vay  heightened  by  the  thought  that  she  has  been  confiding  her 


28  DIANA    CAREW. 

troubles  to  a  boy  of  sixteen,  whose  acquaintance  she  has  not  had 
twenty-four  hours. 

"  Never  mind,"  I  say,  kissing  him,  as  the  gong  sounds.  "  At 
all  events,  never  let  her  make  you  unkind  to  me,  dear."  And  we 
proceed  down-stairs  together  amicably. 

Whilst  we  are  sitting  at  lunch,  the  clouds  break,  the  sun  comes 
put  in  all  his  glory,  and  every  one  begins  to  make  plans  for  spend- 
ing the  afternoon  out  of  doors.  Mrs.  Warringtori  invites  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  to  drive  with  her  in  the  barouche,  and  that  lady 
accedes.  Then  our  hostess,  turning  to  me,  kindly  asks  me  to  be 
of  the  party.  I  do  not  want  to  go  in  the  least,  but  not  knowing 
how  to  excuse  myself,  thank  her,  and  accept. 

"Quite  wrong,  Miss  Carew,"  says  Colonel  Fane,  who  is  again 
next  to  me;  "  it  would  do  you  ten  times  more  good  to  go  for  a 
good  walk." 

"  I  like  walking,"  I  answer,  eagerly. 

"  So  do  I.  Let  us  make  up  a  party;  may  we,  Mrs.  Warring- 
ton  ?  Who  is  for  a  walk  ?" 

"We  are,"  cries  Miss  Gore.  Then,  correcting  herself,  with  a 
blush,  "  at  least  I  am." 

"  And  I,"  says  her  soldier,  tenderly. 

No  one  else  volunteers.  Mr.  Warrington  is  going  to  drive  Lady 
Gwyneth,  and  two  or  three  of  the  men  on  his  coach,  since  it  is 
too  wet  to  shoot. 

"  You  will  come,  too,  Curly?"  says  Lady  Gwyneth;  and  for  the 
world  I  cannot  help  an  angry  flash  coming  into  my  eyes  at  this 
increase  of  intimacy. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  four  are  starting  for  our  walk.     The  air 
is  delicious,  the  sun  as  bright  and  hot  as  it  can  be  in  January; 
such  birds  as  there  are  are  singing,  whistling,  twittering;  the 
bright  rain-drops  stand  on  every  leaf  and  twig,  like  unset  dia- 
monds; little  rivulets  of  rain  run  and  sparkle; 
' '  From  the  green  rivage,  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical " 

work  on  their  way  to  the  brook  below.  It  is  such  a  day  as  one 
sometimes  gets  in  midwinter,  giving  one  a  heavenly  taste  of  the 
spring. 

"  How  glad  I  am  you  thought  of  a  walk!"  I  say,  joyously.  "  I 
hate  driving — or  rather,  being  driven.  But  I  wish  we  had  some 
dogs  to  take;  that  is  half  the  fun  of  a  walk." 

"  We  had  better  get  ahead  of  the  other  couple,"  he  whispers. 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  because,"  he  answers,  laughing  "  we  should  make  a 
point  of  following  them  religiously,  which  they  would  think  a 
great  nuisance;  and  I  don't  suppose  they  will  have  the  same 
scruples  with  regard  to  us." 

"  I  see;  but  really  I  do  not  know  why  lovers  should  require  to 
be  left  alone  in  such  a  public  thing  as  a  walk." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  cries  Colonel  Fane,  as.  stepping  out  briskly, 
we  pass  them,  "  what  a  snail's  pace  you  are  going!  Miss  Carew 
and  I  cannot  curb  our  impatient  feet,  so  we  will  show  you  the 
way." 

And  on  we  go,  nor  ever  cast  a  glance  behind  for  a  couple  of 


DIANA    CAREW.  29 

miles,  when  Colonel  Fane  looks  over  his  shoulder,  and  says,  with 
a  laugh: 

"  I  thought  as  much.  Miss  Gore  and  her  soldier  are  nowhere 
in  sight." 

I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  my  companion  all  my  life,  and  talk 
away  to  him  about  my  father,  Curly,  home,  and  most  things  that 
concern  us:  and  he  listens  as  if  I  were  telling  him  the  most  amus- 
ing, interesting  stories  in  the  world. 

"  Dear  me,"  I  say,  with  sudden  compunction,  as  after  a  walk 
of  about  an  hour  and  a  half  we  are  drawing  homeward  again, 
"  hoTV  I  must  have  been  boring  you  all  this  time!  I  am  nearly 
as  bad  as  Mr.  Desborough,  only  in  a  different  line." 

"  You  cannot  think  how  interested  I  have  been,"  he  answers, 
eagerly.  "  I  quite  long  to  see  you  at  home.  I  wonder  if  your 
father *  would  consider  it  a  liberty  if  I  were  to  call  upon  him?' 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  begin  quickly,  and  then  pause,  remembering 
papa's  aversion  for  any  society. 

"  I  shall  ride  over  one  day,"  he  says,  not  remarking  my  hesi- 
tation; "  you  know  I  live  only  eleven  miles  from  you,  and  my 
father  and  your  grandfather  used  to  know  each  other  very  well. 
After  all  you  have  told  me,  I  should  like  immensely  to  see  Mr. 
Carew.  I  wish  he  were  here." 

"  So  do  I,"  I  respond,  with  a  big  sigh.  "  I  do  miss  him  so.  I 
did  not  want  to  come  at  all,  but  he  insisted  upon  it." 

"Quite  right,  too,"  says  Colonel  Fane,  approvingly;  "you 
ought  to  leave  him  sometimes,  to  get  him  accustomed  to  it 
against  the  time  when  you  leave  him  altogether." 

"You  mean  when  I  get  married?"!  say,  not  pretending  to 
misunderstand  him. 

"  Exactly  "  (smiling). 

"But,"  I  return,  triumphantly,  "I  shall  not  get  married!  I 
never  see  a  man." 

"  Thank  you"  (taking  off  his  hat). 

"  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  out,  and  I  do  not  sup- 
pose I  shall  ever  g«  anywhere  again,  unless  Mrs.  Warrington  in- 
vites me  next  year,  if  I  behave  properly  this  time." 

"  Then  you  do  not  look  forward  to  getting  married,  as  most 
girls  do  ?" 

"  No"  (shaking  my  head),  "not  at  all." 

"Have  you  never"  (very  earnestly)  "thought  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  have  some  one  to  love  and  care  for  you  intensely,  in 
a  different  way  from  a  father  or  mother?' 

"  Yes,"  1  answer,  reluctantly,  blushing  a  little,  "  I  have.  I 
have  been  desperately  in  love,  too,  with  men  in  books;  but" 
(smiling),  "after  those  heroes,  I  do  not  think  I  should  find  an 
ordinary  man  to  come  up  to  my  expectations.  One  would  have 
to  be  so  very  fond  of  a  man  to  marry  him,  would  not  one  ?' 
(looking  up  earnestly  at  him). 

"  Vide  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  he  says,  laugh- 
ing, but  as  quickly  becoming  grave  again. 

"  God  forbid  that  you  should  ever  marry  except  for  love!"  he 
adds,  looking  at  me  very  kindly. 


DIANA    CAREW. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
DIANA'S    STORY. 

THERE  is  a  dance  to-night,  and  more  visitors  have  arrived  at 
the  Hall.  We  are  to  dine  an  hour  earlier  that  we  may  be  ready 
to  dance  when  we  are  piped  to.  Now  we  are  all  silting  over  five- 
o'clock  tea.  I  begin  to  feel  quite  at  home.  Most  of  the  men  in 
the  house  have  been  introduced  to  and  have  talked  to  me;  some 
have  even  invited  me  to  dance — rather  a  risky  thing  to  do  to  a 
little  country-girl  who  has  never  been  out.  Well,  thanks  and 
Curly  be  praised.  I  can  dance,  for  Archdale's  sisters,  who  are  re- 
nowned waltzers,  took  his  education  in  hand  last  summer,  and 
he  has  extended  his  knowledge  to  me.  Many  a  waltz  have  he 
and  I  had  on  the  polished  floor  of  our  big  bare  dining-room, 
whilst  good-natured  Miss  Cross  has  played  unweariedly  for  us  on 
the  old  piano.  Curly  says  I  dance  as  well  and  better  than  Arch- 
dale's  sisters;  but  I  take  that  "  with  a  grain  as  salt,  "as  papa  says. 
I  have  never  danced  with  any  one  except  my  brother;  but  lean- 
not  imagine  anything  more  graceful  or  buoyant  than  his  step; 
and,  although  he  is  two  years  my  junior,  he  is  half  a  head  taller, 
and  I  am  not  short.  I  hear  him  now  supplicating  Lady  Gwyneth 
to  promise  him  a  waltz. 

"  Don't  promise  him  anything  of  the  sort,  Lady  Gwyneth,"  says 
a  good-looking  young  cornet  who  has  come  over  from  the  neigh- 
boring town  to  uine  and  dance.  u  He  will  tear  your  dress, 
stamp  on  your  toes,  and  probably  throw  you  down.  Boys  are  so 
lungeous." 

The  cornet  is  hanging  over  Lady  Gwyneth's  chair,  and  speaks 
in  a  lazy,  good-natured,  chaffing  tone. 

Curly  looks  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  stare  of  well-bred 
impertinence  that  startles  me.  Where  on  earth  did  he  learn  it  ? 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  match  my  performance  with  yours 
either  in  the  ballroom  or  the  hunting-field,"  he  remarks. 

If  I  had  been  surprised  at  his  look,  his  speech  and  the  coolness 
with  which  he  makes  it,  nearly  take  my  breath  away. 

There  is  a  general  shout  from  the  bystanders.  ' '  Bravo,  young 
'un!"  cries  our  host.  "  Spoken  like  a  man!"  And  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth, laughing  heartily,  says:  "  I'll  give  you  two  waltzes  for  that, 
Curly.  I'm  sure  you  would  not  swagger  about  a  thing  you  could 
not  do;  and  if  you  dance  as  well  as  you  ride,  I  should  not  mind 
waltzing  all  night  with  you." 

"  What  a  surprising  infant  it  must  be!"  sneers  the  discomfited 
cornet.  "  Quite  a  phenomenon!" 

"  There's  something  I  think  I  could  surpass  you  in,"  says  Curly, 
flushing  a  little. 

"  No  doubt  a  hundred;  but  what  might  the  particular  one 
be  r" 

"  Manners!"  replies  Curly,  calmly,  turning  on  his  heel. 

'•'  What  a  dear  boy  that  is!"  cries  Lady  Gwyneth.  '.'  I  declare 
I  am  positively  in  love  with  him." 

"  Are  you  ?"  I  think,  grimly.     "  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it." 

The  door  is  flung  open,  and  Captain  Montagu  is  announced.    I 


DIANA     CAREW.  81 

look  up  expectantly,  to  see  the  man  whom  Mrs.  Huntingdon  has 
pronounced  "the  handsomest  in  England." 

"  How  are  you,  Charlie  ?"  resounds  on  all  sides;  he  is  evidently 
popular.  It  is  a  minute  or  two  before  I  can  get  a  glimpse  of  him, 
surrounded  as  he  is  by  people  shaking  hands  and  asking  ques- 
tions. I  gather  from  the  conversation  that  he  has  just  come  from 
a  house  where  royalty  was  being  entertained. 

He  is  coming  toward  the  fire.  I  can  see  him  now.  I  suppose 
my  nature  must  be  rather  a  contradictory  one,  for  when  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  praised  him  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  should  not 
admire  him.  I  was  wrong.  I  do  admire  him  with  that  pro- 
found love  of  beauty,  in  whatever  form,  that  was  born  and  I 
believe  will  die  in  me.  Handsome!  yes,  handsome  as  my  ideal 
heroes  and  fairy  princes — handsomer  than  anything  real  I  be- 
lieved possible.  He  is  good  to  look  at,  as  he  stands  by  the  fire- 
place in  a  careless,  easy  posture  that  becomes  him  admirably.  I 
know  nothing  -of  the  fashion  of  men's  clothes,  have  always 
thought  them  hideous,  but  the  traveling  suit  he  wears  is  faultless, 
and  looks  as  if  it  must  have  grown  upon  him.  I  need  not  stop  to 
chronicle  his  features,  they  are  engraven  on  my  heart,  and  I 
dare  say  the  outside  world  can  do  without  an  inventory  of 
them. 

I  am  sitting  away  from  the  light  and  fire,  for  my  brisk  walk 
in  the  winter  air  has  made  my  cheeks  all  aglow,  and  I  can  feast 
my  eyes  unobserved,  I  think,  upon  this  face,  whose  contempla- 
tion give  me  infinite  pleasure. 

I  am  mistaken,  and  acknowledge  it  with  a  violent  start,  as  a 
low  voice  behind  me  says: 

' '  What  is  the  result  of  your  very  minute  investigation  ?" 

I  am  reassured  when  I  find  my  interlocutor  is  only  Colonel 
Fane,  and  answer,  simply,  with  that  strong  instinct  of  confidence 
with  which  he  inspires  me: 

"  I  never  in  my  life  saw  any  one  so  handsome  before." 

"  Really!"  and  I  fancy  his  voice  sounds  a  little  cold  and  dis- 
appointed. "  I  suppose  he  is  a  good-looking  fellow;  at  least 
most  women  seem  to  think  so." 

"  How  could  any  one  think  otherwise  ?"  I  say,  warmly.  "  Do 
you  know  "  (with  a  confidence  which  I  am  not  at  the  time  aware 
displays  gra  t  want  of  tact)  "he  is  handsomer  even  than  the 
ideal  heroes  of  my  youth." 

"Is  he  ?"  (coldly).  "You  seem  to  set  an  enormous  value  on 
looks." 

"  I  think  I  do"  (reflectively).  "  I  am  sure  I  do"  (positively). 
"You  cannot  think  what  pleasure  it  is  to  me  to  feast  my  eyes 
on  anything  that  is  good  to  look  at." 

"And  1  suppose  you  do  not  stop  to  consider  whether  there 
may  be  any  sterling  qualities  behind  the  exterior  that  pleases 
you  ?" 

"Well,  you  know,"  I  reply,  arguinentatively.  beginning  with 
a  favorite  form  of  speech  papa  constantly  finds  fault  with,  "  gen- 
erally speaking,  if  things  are  good-looking  they  are  good— for 
instance,  a  dog  or  a  horse," 


33  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  And  do  you  think  the  same  applies  to  the  human  animal  ?'" 
(smiling). 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever  seen  any  one  very  good-look- 
ing— except  papa  and  Curly." 

"  At  all  events,  you  are  very  faithful  to  them.  Still"  (after  a 
moment's  silence),  "  T  should  have  thought  you  would  have 
looked  for  a  little  more  mind  than  Charlie  Montagu's  face  indi- 
cates." 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  for  clever  men,"  I  say,  with  some  shame. 
"  My  heroes  were  never  particularly  clever.  They  were  brave 
as  lions,  and  handsome  as — as "  I  pause  for  a  metaphor. 

"  Beautiful,  evil-hearted  Paris,"  he  suggests. 

"Why  will  you  have  it  a  man  cannot  be  good  if  he  is  hand- 
some?" I  say,  rather  vexed. 

"Why  did  you  conclude  this  morning?"  he  asks,  slyly,  "  that 
as  niy  sister  was  good  she  could  be  neither  young  nor 'pretty  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  was  different,"  I  say,  discomfited. 

"  I  think  it  was  deduced  from  the  same  kind  of  reasoning," 
he  says,  laughing;  and  I  go  away  to  dress. 

On  this  evening  Colonel  Fane  takes  me  in  to  dinner.  Why 
should  I  not  be  delighted?  I  know  and  like  him  ten  times  bet- 
ter than  any  one  else  here.  I  •wonder  what  sort  of  foolish, 
vague,  unacknowledged  hope,  that  by  a  fortuitous  concourse  of 
atoms  Captain  Montagu  might  fall  to  my  lot,  or,  rather,  I  to  his, 
entered  my  foolish  brain. 

"  I  asked  Mrs.  Warrington  to  let  me  take  you  to  dinner,"  says 
Colonel  Fane,  triumphantly,  as  we  wend  our  way  through  the 
velvet-carpeted,  antler  and  banner-hung  hall  to  the  dining- 
room. 

"  Did  you?"  I  respond,  trying  to  look  pleased. 

"  She  was  a  little  difficult  at  first,  said  she  had  destined  you 
for  some  one  else,  but  I  persuaded  her  in  the  end." 

"  Who  was  it?  do  you  know?"  I  ask,  looking  into  my  soup, 
and  trying  to  speak  naturally. 

"  Montagu,"  he  replied,  between  two  spoonfuls  of  soup. 

The  flame  shoots  from  brow  to  neck;  so  hot  the  flush  is,  it 
brings  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  How  thankful  I  am  that  my  neigh- 
bor's head  is  bent  over  his  plate!  And  yet  I  am  not  sure  that  it 
escapes  him,  for  he  says,  dryly,  without  looking  up: 

"  Not  Charlie;  his  elder  brother,  who  will  have  the  title  and 
the  money,  You  prefer  the  younger  one,  perhaps  ?" 

"  Hyperion  to  a  Satyr,"  I  say,  briefly. 

"You  seem  well  up  in  Shakespeare,"  he  says,  looking  rather 
amused.  "  But  why  don't  you  like  Hector?" 

"  He  has  a  cold,  sarcastic  manner  that  I  dislike.  I  am  afraid 
of  him." 

"  He  will  have  twelve  thousand  a  year  when  his  father 
dies." 

"  Does  that  make  him  any  nicer?" 

"  It  would  in  most  women's  eyes." 

I  glance  down  the  table;  between  the  ferns  and  gold  plate  I 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  Greek  head.  At  this  moment  it  is  bending 
toward  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  who  is  employing  the  same  blandish- 


DIANA    CAREW.  33 

ments  upon  him  she  used  upon  Sir  George  last  night.  He  is  on 
her  other  side,  and  evidently  resents  the  diversion  of  her  atten- 
tion from  him.  I  feel  a  slight  pang  of  jealousy.  Is  it  not  too 
ridiculous!  My  memory  supplies  me  with  another  quotation 
from  my  favorite  Shakespeare; 

"  What  am  I  to  Hecuba,  or  what  is  Hecuba  to  me'" 

What,  indeed  ?  and,  thinking  thus,  I  resolutely  turn  from  con- 
templation of  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  will  be  a  pleasant  dance  to-night  ?"  I  say,  forc- 
ibly diverting  the  channel  of  my  thoughts. 

"  I  should  think  it  would  for  you  "  (kindly).  "  You  have  every- 
thing to  make  it  pleasant/' 

"  How  so?"  I  ask. 

"  Youth  and  health  to  enjoy,  good  looks  to  get  you  partners, 
and,  beyond  all,  the  charm  of  novelty." 

"Fancy,"  I- remark,  thoughfully;  "I  am  eighteen  years  old, 
and  I  have  never  been  to  a  dance!'1 

"Delightful!"  he  says.  "I  wish  I  was  eighteen  again,  and 
ensign;  though,  by  the  way,  I  don't  think  1  was  doing  much 
dancing  at  that  age." 

"  No?"  (inquisitively).     "  What  were  you  doing?" 

"  Spending  my  evenings  very  agreeably  in  the  trenches." 

"Were  you  in  the  Crimea?  Did  you  fight?  Were  you 
wounded  ?"  I  ask.  eagerly. 

"  I  was  not  killed,  at  all  events,"  he  replies,  smiling;  "  but,  be- 
fore it  is  too  late,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  a  dance.  May  I  have 
the  first  one?" 

"  That  will  be  a  square  one,"  I  say,  with  a  freedom  which  sur- 
prises, myself.  "  I  suppose ''  (with  a  touch  of  pique)  "you  think  I 
can't  waltz  ?'' 

"  On  the  contrary  "  ( looking  amused).  "  I  would  make  a  very 
heavy  wager  on  your  capabilities  in  that  respect.  But  /  do  not 
waltz." 

4 '  Do  you  not  ?"  (rather  disappointed).     "  Why  not  T 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  am  getting  old." 

"  Very,"  I  remark,  derisively. 

"  And  in  the  second " 

"  Yes,  in  the  second  ?" 

"  Well "  (locking  hard  at  me).  "  I  do  not  think  I  ever  told  any 
one  but  my  sister  the  second  reason." 

I  am  silent,  though  curious. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  he  says,  suddenly. 

"Do!"  I  say,  having  the  feminine  (by  the  way,  why  fem- 
inine ?)  instinct  of  curiosity  strongly  developed. 

"  Five  years  ago  "  (balancing  a  fork  on  the  edge  of  the  table 
rather  nervously)  "  I  was  engaged  to  be  married." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  rather  a  jealous  sort  of  fellow,  and  I  hated  to  see  any 
other  man's  arm  round  the  waist  of  my  intended  wife." 

"  Did  you  ?''  I  say,  with  reluctant  disapproval. 

"  Yes,  I  did"  (with  a  little  flash  of  the  eyes);  "and  I  think  I 
should  do  the  same  now." 


84  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  Should  you  ?"  I  say,  again,  with  more  pronounced  disap- 
proval. 

"  I  see  you  disagree  with  me  "(a  little  impatiently);  "most 
women  would,  I  suppose.  However,  I  promised  her  that  if  she 
would  leiwe  off  dancing  round  dances,  I  would  never  dance  one 
again." 

"  You  did  not  care  for  waltzing,  I  suppose  ?" 

"On  the  contrary"  (coldly),  "I  was  passionately  fond  of  it. 
She  promised,  but  some  time  after  that  the  marriage  was  broken 
off;  she  broke  it  off,  and  I  dare  say  "  (bitterly)  "has  danced  to 
her  heart's  content  ever  since." 

"But  surely  that  absolved  you  also?"  I  say,  in  a  surprised 
voice. 

"  I  dare  say.  It  was  a  Quixotic  idea  of  mine,  was  it  not  ? 
But,  as  I  had  given  my  word,  I  did  not  feel  I  could  take  it  back 
again  because  she  was  untrue  to  hers;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
was 

"  '  In  half  disgust  of  life,  love,  all  things,' 

as  Tennyson  says.     But  you  have  not  answered  me  yet.    Will 
you  dance  the  first  dance  with  me  ?" 
'  Yes,  with  pleasure." 

'  And  perhaps  one  or  two  more,  if  I  don't  bore  you  very 
much  ?" 

'  I  can  answer  for  your  not  doing  that,"  I  reply  heartily. 

'  Can  you  ?    I  wish  I  could " 

'  There  is  Mrs.  Warrington  making  signals  already,"  I  inter- 
rupt. "  Dinner  has  not  been  half  so  long  to-night." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  contradict  you,  but,  for  my  vanity's  sake,  I 
must  tell  you  it  has  been  exactly  seven  minutes  longer." 

I  follow  the  trailing  robes  of  the  lady  in  front  of  me  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  Colonel  Fane's  sister  at  once  comes  up  to 
me. 

Looking  over  the  years  (they  are  not  many,  though  they  have 
been  so  full  of  joy  and  pain,  to  me  they  seem  many)  since  that 
evening,  I  can  still  distinctly  remember  the  impression  she  made 
upon  me.  She  was  quite  different  from  any  other  woman  I  had 
ever  seen.  She  seemed  of  the  world,  but  yet  not  worldly;  there 
was  something  so  genial,  so  kind,  and  yet  so  dignified  about 
her.  She  was  almost  the  only  good  person  I  have  ever  known, 
who,  being  really  good,  neither  felt  nor  claimed  superiority 
on  that  account,  but,  I  verily  believe,  in  her  true,  pure  heart 
thought  herself,  what  we  all  so  often  and  glibly  confess  ourselves, 
without  even  thinking  of  its  meaning,  a  sinner.  I  never  remember 
to  have  heard  her  condemn  another  human  being.  Many  things 
were  wrong,  faulty,  sinful  in  herself,  but  for  others  whose  faults 
(as  they  mostly  could  not  help  but  be)  were  a  thousand  times 
more  glaring,  more  condemnable,  there  were  always  extenuat- 
ing circumstances.  She  had,  indeed, 

"  Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity." 

Handsome,  spirited,  full  of  life  and  gayety,  she  mixed  freely 
in  society,  dressed  well,  talked  well,  was  admired;  her  influence 


DIANA    CAREW.  35 

was  not  a  compelling  one,  but  something  subtle,  that  made  peo- 
ple in  her  presence  instinctively  desire  to  be  and  seem  some- 
thing better  than  they  had  been  content  to  be  and  seem  before. 

I  cannot  help  remarking,  even  on  this  first  evening  that  I  meet 
her,  as  she  stands  by  the  fireplace,  drawing  the  conversation 
gradually  to  be  a  general  one  (which  it  had  certainly  never  been 
before),  how  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon  seem  pleas- 
anter  and  less  fast  and  rude  (I  confess  to  that  having  been  my 
mental  verdict  on  their  manners)  than  before.  She  enters  with 

freat  interest  upon  the  subject  of  the  dance,  though  she  dances 
ut  little  herself. 

"  I  can't  conceive  why  you  don't  dance  round  dances,"  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  remarks,  with  more  affability  in  her  tone  than  I 
imagined  her  capable  of.  "I  suppose  you  think  it  wrong  ?" 

"Not  at  all;  it  is  a  very  nice,  healthy  amusement.  Really,  I 
hardly  know  why  I  do  not.  I  don't  think  I  should  care  much 
about  it.  And  now  I  am  getting  too  old — I  am  thirty." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  look  as  well  at  thirty,"  says  Mrs.  Huntingdon, 
•who,  I  am  sure,  looks  years  older  than  Miss  Fane.  ' '  Tell  me, 
how  have  you  managed  to  preserve  yourself  so  wonderfully  :" 

"  A  light  heart  and  not  too  much  brains,  I  suppose,"  she  returns, 
gayly. 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  says  kind  Mrs.  Warrington,  "  I  cannot  have 
you  disparaging  yourself.  You  will  get  no  one  to  agree  with  you. 
Come,  it  is  time  we  adjourned  to  the  ballroom." 

"  Will  you  come  with  me?"  Miss  Fane  asks  me,  and  I  give  a 
glad  assent.  I  take  an  early  opportunity  of  putting  a  question 
that  has  been  on  my  mind  ever  since  dinner. 

"  Colonel  Fane  was  in  the  Crimea,  was  he  not?  Was  he  wound- 
ed? Did  he  distinguish  himself?" 

"Yes,  both;  but  nothing  will  induce  him  to  speak  of  his  ex- 
ploits. He  was  quite  a  boy;  but  he  did  some  very  gallant  things, 
and  I  know  we  were  all  veiy  proud  of  him.  There  is  no  one  to 
be  proud  of  him  but  me  now."  she  says,  rather  sadly;  "  he  is  the 
dearest,  kindest  fellow  in  the  world." 

At  this  moment  there  is  a  scraping  of  strings,  a  tuning  of  in- 
struments, the  trumpet  sounds  to  battle,  and  Colonel  Fane  comes 
to  bid  me  join  the  fray.  My  heart  beats  with  excitement,  my 
hand  trembles  violently  upon  his  arm.  I  can  scarcely  hear  the 
gay  pleasant  words  he  is  whispering  in  my  ear.  The  feet- 
inspiring  music,  the  lights,  the  sight  of  other  women  airily, 
daintily  dressed,  the  hum  of  voices  and  low  laughter  steal  across 
my  senses,  and  I  feel  fairly  intoxicated  with  pleasure.  I  cannot 
restrain  the  smiles  which  will  beam  and  broaden  across  my 
happy  face.  I  dare  not  look  at  any  one,  for  fear  they  should 
think  I  am  laughing  at  them.  Never,  no,  never  in  all  my  life 
have  I  felt  so  radiantly,  excitedly  happy  as  when  the  band 
strikes  up,  and  I  seem  to  swim  across  the  waxed  floor  to  meet 
another  ethereal  being  who  floats  toward  me.  At  this  moment 
I  catch  sight  of  Curly's  handsome  face,  flushed  with  pleasure, 
his  eyes  dancing  with  excitement,  ana  I  see  Colonel  Fane  look 
from  one  to  the  other  of  us. 

"  You  are  envying  us,"  I  cry,  joyously. 


36  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  No,"  he  answers,  smiling,  "  to  envy  is  to  wish  to  take  some- 
thing from  another.  I  would  not  rob  you  of  a  tithe  of  your 
pleasure,  either  of  you,  for  all  the  world." 


CHAPTER  VII. 
DIANA'S   STOKY. 

I  AM  engaged  for  the  first  four  dances;  my  second  partner  is 
Mr.  Montagu,  the  elder  brother.  Although  I  do  not  feel  partic- 
ularly drawn  to  him,  I  am  in  such  a  happy  humor  that  I  can 
sow  pleasant  looks  and  words  broadcast  over  every  one:  and 
really  he  waxes  pleasanter  on  acquaintance.  I  am  sure  he  in- 
tends to  be  very  kind  and  civil,  but  long  habit,  I  suppose,  has  so 
confirmed  the  cold,  proud  expression  of  his  face,  that  he  cannot 
alter  it  now,  even  at  will.  His  words  are  kind,  and  he  dances 
well,  but  I  am  not  altogether  sorry  when  our  dance  is  done  and 
he  hands  me  over  to  the  cornet  whom  Curly  so  successfully  sat 
upon.  I  do  not  bear  him  the  slightest  malice,  since  he  got  the 
worst  of  the  encounter.  He  is  a  good-looking,  good-natured 
young  fellow,  inordinately  proud  of  his  profession  and  regiment, 
and  at  an  age  (as  I  know  by  later  experience)  when  young  men 
give  as  much  consideration  to  their  clothes  and  appearance  as 
any  vain  woman.  But  he  has  not  shaken  off  college  and  country 
life  at  home  long  enough  not  to  be  thoroughly  full  of  spirits  and 
boyish  pranks.  We  get  on  tremendously  well.  He  dances  per- 
fectly; we  seem  to  swim  away  together,  our  pleasure  and  confi- 
dence in  each  other  waxing  greater  every  moment. 

"  I  say,"  he  remarks,  confidentially,  as  after  a  long  time  we 
pause  for  sheer  want  of  breath,  "  what  an  awful  lot  of  practice 
you  must  have  had  to  waltz  so  well!" 

•'  I  have  never  been  at  a  dance  before,"  I  say,  gleefully,  look- 
ing up  at  him. 

"  By  Jove!"  in  a  voice  expressive  of  as  much  astonishment  as 
though  I  had  announced  to  him  that  I  had  discovered  the  eighth 
wonder  of  the  world.  "  By  Jove!"  (a  second  time  even  more 
expressive). 

"  I  have  never  waltzed  before,  except  with  Curly"  (triumph- 
antly). 

"  Curly  again!"  he  says,  rather  discontentedly — "  the  univers- 
ally accomplished  Curly.  So  you  know  him,  too,  do  you?" 

"  Yes"  (with  a  malicious  smile).     "  I  know  him." 

' '  And  I  suppose  you  think  him  a  paragon,  too  ?"  (a  little 
sulkily). 

"  Indeed  I  do." 

"  As  great  a  paragon  as  Lady  Gwyneth  does?" 

"  A  great  deal  more  of  one"  (indignantly). 

"  Well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  he  returrs,  pulling 
his  incipient  mustache.  "  Now,  I  think  he's  a  self-suffi- 
cient  " 

"  Stop!"  I  cry,  breathlessly;  "  he's  my  brother." 

"  By  Jove!"  and  until  this  moment  I  cculd  not  have  conceived 
any  one  being  able  to  put  so  much  expression  into  two  words. 
He  blushes,  and  says,  "  lam  sure  I  beg  you  ten  thousand  par- 


DIANA    CAREW.  37 

dons.  I  did  not  catch  your  name  Avhen  I  was  introduced  to  you: 
and  ''  (looking  hard  at  me)  "  you  are  so  very  unlike  each  other." 

"  I  forgive  you,"  I  say,  laughing;  "  and  when  you  know  him, 
you'll  like  him  as  much  as  every  one  else  does." 

"  I  daresay  "  (politely).  "  I  suppose  I  had  left  Eton  before  he 
went  there.  But  it's  an  awful  shame  to  be  losing  this  delicious 
waltz." 

And  off  we  go  again,  uttering  simultaneously  a  grievous ' '  Oh!" 
as  it  very  soon  after  comes  to  an  abrupt  conclusion. 

"  We  must  have  another,"  cries  Mr.  Tempest. 

I  am  no  way  loath,  but  when  I  see  him  continue  to  make  hiero- 
glyphics down  my  card,  I  am  forced  to  remonstrate.  What  vain, 
foolish,  unacknowledged  hope  makes  me  desire  to  keep  two  or 
three  waltzes  free  ?  At  the  beginning  of  the  last  dance,  the  lan- 
guid Mrs.  Huntingdon,  marvelously  elegant  in  clouds  of  tulle, 
had  floated  before  me  in  the  arms  of  Captain  Montagu.  I  could 
not  imagine  anything  more  graceful  than  their  dancing.  Other 
couples  were  stopping  to  watch  them  too.  What  would  I  not 
give  to  be  chosen  as  a  partner  by  him! 

As  at  last  I  divert  my  rapt  gaze  from  the  pair,  I  find  Colonel 
Fane's  eyes  fixed  upon  me,  and  a  little  later  I  see  him  approach 
Captain  Montagu,  who  is  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  whisper 
to  him.  I  see  Captain  Montagu  glance  at  me,  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders slightly,  and  move  languidly  across  the  room  toward  me, 
in  the  wake  of  Colonel  Fane,  I  cannot  tell  why,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment my  heart  gives  a  throb  of  indignant,  outraged  pride;  a 
wild  instinct  of  flight  seizes  upon  me,  and  in  a  moment,  before  I 
even  know  what  I  am  doing,  I  slip  my  hand  from  my  partner's 
arm,  and  rushing  through  the  door  that  is  near,  fly  across  the 
hall  and  up  the  stairs,  as  Cinderella  might  have  fled  when  she 
found  herself  in  her  rags  among  the  brilliant  company.  I  will 
vouch  for  it  she  was  not  filled  with  more  biting,  stinging  shame 
than  I — feeling  that,  out  of  kindness,  Colonel  Fane  has  asked 
him  to  be  introduced  to  me,  and  that  he  has  felt,  as  I  read  in  his 
face,  unmistakably  bored.  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  my  bed,  blushing 
burning  blushes  both  in  my  face  and  in  my  heart.  Never  have 
I  felt  so  mortified  before.  For,  in  the  tranquil  life  at  home,  if 
there  are  no  great  pleasures  and  excitements,  neither  are  there 
any  heart-burnings  or  wounded  vanities.  I  feel  very  small.  I 
am  already  ashamed  of  having  yielded  to  my  impulse.  With 
the  ignorance  of  people  unaccustomed  to  the  ways  of  the  world, 
I  imagine  every  one  must  be  commenting  upon  my  strange  be- 
havior. I  even  half  expect  some  one  to  come  in  search  of  me. 
But  ten  minutes  elapse,  I  am  still  sitting  on  the  edge  of  my  bed, 
and  I  begin  to  think  I  may  as  well  go  down  again.  So,  shame- 
facedly, I  creep  down  the  broad  staircase,  and  there  at  the  bot- 
tom stands  my  disconsolate  partner,  waiting  for  me. 

"  I  could  not  think  what  on  earth  had  become  of  you!"  he  ex- 
claims at  the  sight  of  me.  "  Did  you  tear  your  dress,  or  were 
you  taken  ill,  or"  (with  a  smile  that  evidently  mocks  the  ex- 
treme improbability  of  his  suggestion)  "  did  you  want  to  get  out 
of  dancing  with  me  V" 


38  DIANA    CAREW. 

I  have  no  answer  ready  to  his  remark.  I  have  not  yet  learned 
the  necessity  and  propriety  of  white  lies  in  society,  so  am  silent. 

"  I  must  conclude  the  last,  I  suppose,"  he  says,  looking  at  me 
with  an  expression  that  infers  a  doubt  whether  I  am  quite 
right  in  my  mind. 

"  Oh,  no!"  I  reply,  feebly.     "Let  us  begin  now,  shall  we?" 

"  Considering  that  one  galop  is  over  and  they  are  now  form- 
ing for  the  lancers,  that  would  be  difficult,"  he  says  provoked. 
"  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  be  put  off  with  them." 

"  And  I  am  engaged  to  some  one  else,"  I  say. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Montagu,  who  is  to  be  my  partner,  claims 
me,  and,  having  promised  another  galop  to  my  indignant  part- 
ner, we  go  to  join  our  set. 

The  lancers  are  over.  Mercifully,  I  have  encountered  neither 
Colonel  Fane  nor  Captain  Montagu,  His  brother  takes  me  into 
the  conservatory,  and  we  are  bending  over  a  lovely  tea-rose, 
when  a  voice  that  makes  me  start  and  tremble,  says,  softly,  be- 
hind us: 

"  Hector,  will  you  introduce  me  to  Miss  Carew?" 

Mr.  Montagu  scowls  at  his  brother,  but  performs  the  ceremony 
in  a  frigid  voice. 

He  is  asking  me  to  dance,  in  those  low  pleasant  tones;  his  glance- 
is  caressing  me.  For  a  moment  I  feel  an  impulse  to  refuse 
rudely,  but  there  is  something  stronger  than  I,  and  I  give  him 
my  card.  He  write  his  name  for  the  eleventh  dance — my"  first 
disengaged  one — thanks  me,  and  turns  away.  Somehow  I  feel 
radiantly  happy.  I  keep  saying  to  myself,  "  I  am  going  to 
dance  with  him ;  it  is  a  long  wTay  off,  but  I  am  going  to  dance 
with  him."  I  seem  to  tread  on  air;  I  am  so  bright  and  full  of 
laughter  that  even  his  stern  brother  catches  the  contagion  and 
laughs  without  a  sneer.  I  feel  like  a  child  who  has  put  its  bonne 
bouche  on  the  side  of  its  plate,  and  is  looking  at  it  all  the  time  it- 
eats  its  less  delicious  morsels. 

The  tenth  dance  is  over;  the  dowagers  have  gone  off  to  supper, 
and  the  room  is  deliciously  cool  and  clear.  I  am  waiting  in 
eager,  delightful  expectation  to  be  claimed.  The  strains  of  ono 
of  Gungl's  entrancing  waltzes  are  wafted  toward  me.  He  is  not 
yet  here.  Oh,  how  grievous  to  lose  one  bar  of  it!  Two  or  three 
men,  seeing  me  sit  partnerless,  come  and  ask  me  to  dance. 

"  I  am  engaged,"  I  answer  to  each;  but  still  he  does  not  come. 

It  seems  utterly  ridiculous,  when  I  look  back,  to  think  I  could 
feel  such  intense  pain  as  I  did  sitting  there,  waiting  feverishly 
as  the  delicious  music  poured  on,  trying  to  wreathe  my  features 
into  a  smile  when  I  was  ready  to  cry  with  passionate  disappoint- 
ment. 

Curly  comes  up  to  me. 

"  Hullo,  Di! — not  dancing  ?    I'll  find  you  a  partner;  shall  I  ?" 

"  I  am  engaged,"  I  answer,  trying  to  make  my  voice  sound  in- 
different, "  to  Captain  Montagu." 

"  Montagu!  I  saw  him  not  a  moment  since,  sitting  in  the  con- 
servatory with  Mrs.  Huntingdon.  I'll  tell  him  you  are  waiting; 
Shall  I?" 


DIANA    CAREW.  39 

"  Not  for  the  world!"  I  cry,  hastily.  "  There  is  Colonel  Fane; 
ask  him  to  come  to  me." 

Curly  obeys;  and  Colonel  Fane  comes  up  at  once. 

"  Will  you  take  me  in  to  supper?"  I  say,  hastily.  "  I  am  so 
hungry!"  And,  without  even  waiting  for  his  answer,  I  rise  and 
take  his  arm. 

We  go  into  the  dinning-room,  and  he  places  me  on  a  low  vel- 
vet couch  near  the  window. 

"  What  shall  I  get  you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  am  hungry,  after  all,"  I  say;  for  I  am  so 
nervous  and  excited,  the  very  sight  of  food  gives  me  a  nausea. 

"  I  see  you  exert  your  woman's  privilege  of  changing  your 
mind,"  he  remarks,  smiling.  "  Shall  I  get  you  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne ?" 

"  Please,"  I  answer;  and  when  he  is  gone,  remembering  that  I 
never  drink  wine,  it  occurs  to  me  that  it  may  get  into  my  head. 
So  when  he  returns,  I  say: 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,  I  would  rather  have  a  glass  of  lemonade 
or  water  "  (for  my  lips  are  burning  with  thirst). 

Without  a  word,  he  takes  it  away,  and  fetches  what  I  have 
asked  for. 

"  You  must  think  me  troublesome,"  I  say,  apologetically. 

"  I  think  you  are  qualifying  for  a  woman  of  fashion,"  he  re- 
turns. 

I  do  not  know  whether  he  intends  it  as  a  rebuke,  but  I  take  it 
as  such,  and  feel  rather  ashamed. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  says,  sitting  down  by  me,  "  what  made  you  fly 
off  in  such  hot  haste  when  I  was  bringing  Montagu  over  to  in- 
troduce to  you  ?" 

Colonel  Fane's  is  certainly  a  most  truth-compelling  gaze.  I  do 
not  want  to  tell  him  why  I  fled,  and  I  look  down  at  the  floor, 
round  the  room,  back  at  my  fan,  from  none  of  which  do  I  re- 
ceive inspiration  or  courage. 

"  Because,"  I  say,  at  last,  hanging  my  head,  to  hide,  if  might 
be,  the  hot  shame  that  dyes  my  cheeks,  "I  thought  you  were  in- 
troducing him  to  me  because  you  fancied  I  was  anxious  to  know 
him,  and  he — he — did  not  seem  equally  desirous  of  the  honor  of 
my  acquaintance." 

"  How  sensitive  you  are!"  he  says,  looking  at  me  compassion- 
ately. "  Besides,  that  is  only  Montagu's  way  of  doing  every- 
thing, just  as  if  it  were  a  bore.  He  would  probably  have  done 
just  the  same  if  I  had  proposed  to  introduce  him  to  the  greatest 
lady  in  the  land." 

"  Then,"  I  retort,  warmly,  "had  I  been  the  greatest  lady  in 
land,  I  should  have  refused  to  be  introduced  to  liim." 

"  Oh!  then  you  have  made  up  your  mind  not  to  know  him?" 

I  am  silent.  Not  for  anything  in  the  world  can  I  tell  him  how 
Captain  Montagu  has  been  introduced  to  and  how  he  has  in- 
sulted me. 

At  this  very  moment,  the  man  in  question  enters  the  room  and 
comes  toward  me. 

"  This  is  our  dance,  I  think,"  he  says,  standing  before  me;  and 
as  soon  as  the  words  are  spoken,  Colonel  Fane,  rising,  moves 


40  DIANA    CAREW. 

away.  As  for  me,  I  am  bewildered:  my  mind  is  equally  full  of 
doubt,  surprise,  and  wrath.  I  look  up  at  him,  and  answer, 
coldly: 

"  No.     You  asked  me  for  the  last." 

"  Impossible!"  with  well-feigned  (if  it  is  feigned)  surprise. 
"  Allow  me  to  see  your  card." 

"  You  had  better  refer  to  yours." 

'•  Unfortunately,  I  have  dropped  it "  (looking  concerned).  "  I 
am  afraid  that  is  how  the  mistake  occurred.  But"  (persua- 
sively) "  will  you  not  forgive  me  and  dance  this  one  instead  ?'' 

"  I  am  engaged." 

"Cannot  you  throw  the  other  fellow  over?"  he  says  calmly; 
and  I  reply,  indignantly: 

"  No.'r  ' 

"  Because,"  he  murmurs,  looking  caressingly  at  me,  "  I  should 
awfully  like  to  waltz  with  you.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  have  an- 
other chance  to-night." 

Could  any  one  believe — could  I  believe  myself— that  I  was  ca- 
pable of  being  so  mean,  so  weak-minded  ?  I  feel  very  small  and 
ashamed  of  myself;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  after  a  little  more 
persuasion  I  yield. 

Trembling  lest  I  should  meet  Mr.  Tempest,  my  bonafide  part- 
ner, I  walk,  supported  on  Captain  Montagu's  arm,  back  to  the 
ball-room.  The  music  has  commenced;  in  the  distance  I  see  my 
cornet  making  for  me,  and  whisper,  desperately: 

"  Let  us  begin!" 

A  few  moments  of  the  most  intense  felicity  I  have  ever  tasted 
in  my  life — the  enchantment  of  the  delicious  music,  the  airy, 
floating  motion,  the  touch  of  the  man  I  love.  What  have  I  said  ? 
the  man  I  love  ?  Well,  let  it  stand.  I  believe  I  already  loved 
him  then.  Heaven  knows  whether  I  have  loved  him  since. 

A  few  moments,  then,  of  sweet  intoxication,  and  I  am  again 
leaning  on  his  arm,  with  such  a  beating  heart,  such  exultation 
in  my  eyes,  when  my  Nemesis  arrives.  It  takes  the  form  of 
Georgy  Tempest,  who,  standing  in  front  of  me,  and  looking  very 
black  and  dignified,  says:  "  If  you  will  refer  to  your  card,  Miss 
Carew,  I  think  you  will  find  you  are  engaged  to  me  for  this 
dance." 

I  stand  convicted,  and  acknowledge  it  by  silence.  Already, 
even,  I  am  reluctantly  drawing  my  hand  away  from  Captain 
Montagu's  arm ;  but,  pressing  it  tighter,  he  holds  it  there,  and 
says: 

"  Some  mistake.    Yours  was  the  last;  this  is  mine." 

If  he  expects  me  to  aid  and  abet  his  falsehood  by  another,  he 
must  be  disappointed  in  me,  for  I  still  stand  silent  between  them. 
An  older  man  than  Mr.  Tempest  would  probably  read  in  my  ex- 
pressive face  what  bent  my  inclinations  take,  and  would  leave 
me,  however  annoyed  at  heart,  with  an  acquiescent  bow;  but 
Mr.  Tempest  is  only  bent  on  one  thing — which  is,  to  have  his  own 
way  and  not  to  be  outdone  by  another  man. 

"  May  I  see  your  card?"  he  says,  with  angry  persistence. 

"  Don't  show  it  him.  Miss  Carew,"  interposes  Captain  Montagu, 
languidly.  "  He  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  your  word." 


DIANA    CAREW.  41 

"  I  shall  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  Miss  Carew's  word  if  she 
gives  it,"  replies  the  cornet,  looking  unutterable  things  at  him. 
"It  is  no  use,"  I  say,  dragging  my  hand  away,  and  with  it 
hope,  delight,  ecstasy;  "  I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Tempest." 

Captain  Montagu  drops  my  hand,  makes  me  a  cold  bow  and 
retires.     I  may  safely  vary  the  charming  words  of  GEnone: 
"  All  my  heart  went  out  to  meet  him,  coming  as  he  came," 
By 

"  All  my  heart  went  after  him,  going  as  he  went." 

Mr.  Tempest  puts  his  arm  round  me,  and  we  join  the  waltzers. 
Did  I  say  he  danced  well  ?  He  seemed  awkward  and  clumsy 
now.  But  then  all  my  heart  has  gone  out  of  it,  and  is  standing 
and  leaning  against  the  door  with  a  somewhat  sulky  expression, 
in  the  person  of  Captain  Charles  Montagu. 

"It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  confess  the  truth,"  says  my 
partner,  radiantly.  "One  doesn't  often  get  a  rise  out  of  that 
fellow  Montagu.  You  don't  regret  it,  do  you?"  (eagerly).  "I 
don't  dance  much  worse  than  he  does,  do  I?" 

The  words  with  which  I  answer  him  are  polite,  but  I  am  con- 
scious that  my  candid  face  is  very  long  and  doleful.  I  try  to 
widen  it  by  a  smile,  but  I  have  an  idea  that  the  result  is  about 
as  truthful  and  becoming  as  one's  reflection  in  the  bowl  of  a 
spoon.  Every  time  we  pause  in  the  dance,  I  glance  shyly  and 
wistfully  toward  that  happy  portion  of  the  wall  which  is  sup- 
porting the  languid  figure  of  Captain  Montagu.  I  cannot  catch 
his  eye,  or  he  might  read  how  genuinely  afflicted  I  am;  but  he 
seems  to  look  everywhere  except  at  me. 

The  ball  is  over.  I  am  sitting  by  my  bedroom  fire  in  maiden 
meditation,  but  not  fancy  free — oh,  no!  not  fancy  free!  Twelve 
hours  ago  I  had  not  seen  the  man  who  occupies  all  my  thoughts 
now.  "  I  do  not  occupy  many  of  his."  think  I,  forlornly,  for  he 
has  taken  no  smallest  notice  of  me  since  I  drew  my  reluctant 
hand  from  his  arm,  but  has  devoted  himself  entirely  to  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,  of  whom  I  feel  wildly,  bitterly  jealous.  My  first 
ball!  Well,  there  has  been  more  of  pain  than  pleasure  in  it, 
though  at  first  it  seemed  to  promise  so  fair. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
DIANA'S   STORY. 

THE  next,  or,  more  correctly  speaking,  the  same  day,  the  gen~ 
tlemen  of  the  party  go  out  shooting,  all,  with  one  exception. 
Captain  Montagu  has  not  yet  made  his  appearance :  it  is  rumored, 
indeed,  that,  like  a  woman  of  fashion,  he  generally  takes  tea 
and  toast  in  his  room,  and  does  not  appear  until  the  day  has  been 
thoroughly  aired  for  him.  Hearing  this,  I  ought  naturally  to  be 
smitten  with  a  supreme  scorn  of  my  handsome  ideal,  but  am 
not.  I  am  a  very  stanch  friend:  for  me  "the  king  can  do  no 
wrong."  and  whosoever  may  be  king  or  friend  of  mine  is  safe 
from  my  caviling. 

Lady  Gwyneth  has  gone  with  the  shooting-party.  She,  like 
Mrs.  Huntingdon,  '•  cannot  stand  doing  needlework  with  a 


42  DIANA 

parcel  of  women  in  a  boudoir,"  and  is  so  rar  more  fortunate 
than  the  other  in  that  she  can  join  in  most  manly  sports.  She 
copies  men  to  the  best  of  her  ability,  since,  to  her  infinite  and 
constantly  expressed  regret,  she  has  not  been  born  one  of  them. 
This  morning  she  wears  a  homespun  Norfolk  jacket  over  a 
short  narrow  velvet  petticoat;  her  feet  are  incased  in  laced  boots 
of  stoutest  make,  and  gaiters;  a  wide-awake,  adorned  with 
woodcock's  feathers  shot  by  herself,  crowns  her  head;  and  she 
shoulders  resolutely  her  own  light  gun,  disdaining  to  have  it 
carried  either  by  keeper  or  friend. 

She  patronizes  Curly  more  than  ever  this  morning,  to  my  in- 
finite disgust,  calls  him  "  dear  boy,"  and  pets  him  with  what  I 
consider  ostentatiously  bad  taste.  I  who  have  heard  and  read 
that  modesty,  delicacy,  and  womanliness  are  most  highly  com- 
mended and  desired  in  our  sex  by  the  other,  am  at  some  pains  to 
reconcile  the  statement  with  the  evident  popularity  Lady 
Gwyneth  enjoys  with  men.  True,  they  treat  her  with  a  camerad- 
erie  which  savors  more  of  familiarity  than  respect;  but  that 
they  are  amused  in  her  company,  and  seek  it,  is  a  fact  too  patent 
to  be  controverted. 

At  this  period  of  my  life  I  am  not  aware  that  a  woman  who  is 
young,  rich,  and  well-born,  who  has  a  pleasant  house  and  enter- 
tains hospitably,  can  follow,  with  the  world's  toleration  if  not  ad- 
miration, her  own  sweet  will,  be  it  never  so  opposed  to  the  rules 
laid  down  for  less  fortunate  mortals.  But  is  she  fortunate  ?  I 
think  not.  I  am  inexperienced  in  the  world,  and  have  never 
had  any  opportunity  of  judging  character,  but  I  fancy  I  read  in 
her  constant  restlessness,  in  the  troubled  expression  which  now 
and  again  flits  over  her  face,  that  she  is  dissatisfied  with  and 
disapproves  of  herself. 

Liincheon  is  to  be  sent  to  the  shooting-party  at  two  o'clock, 
and  it  is  ordained  that  Miss  Gore  and  I  shall  join  it  at  a  kind  of 
summer-house  in  the  wood.  Mrs.  Warrington  can  make  no  ar- 
rangement for  herself  until  she  has  ascertained  Mrs.  Hunting- 
don's pleasure,  and  that  lady  does  not  make  her  appearance 
until  after  the  sportsmen  have  started.  My  hostess  takes  me 
all  round  her  observatories  and  hot-houses — a  real  treat,  for  I 
love  flowers  passionately;  then  she  leaves  me  to  go  and  see 
Claire  Fane,  who  is  suffering  from  a  severe  headache,  and  bids 
me  go  to  her  boudoir  and  amuse  myself  until  she  joins  me  there. 
We  part  in  the  hall,  and  I  bound  up-stairs  very  much  as  is  my 
wont  at  home,  throw  open  the  boudoir  door,  and  am  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor  before  the  fact  flashes  upon  me  that  I  have  rudely 
broken  up  a  tete-a-tete.  Mrs.  Huntingdon  is  reclining  in  a  low 
chair  by  the  fire,  and  Captain  Montagu,  handsomer,  more  fas- 
cinating than  ever  this  morning,  leans  against  the  mantel-shelf 
close  beside  her.  She  scowls;  he  smiles;  I — need  it  be  said?— I 
do  what  I  have  hardly  ceased  to  do  since  I  entered  the  house — 
blush  until  the  water  stands  in  my  eyes.  I  know  not  how  to  act; 
it  would  surely  look  too  pointed  to  go  out  again,  as  though  they 
were  lovers — she  a  married  woman!  So  I  stand  where  I  am,  and 
blurt  out: 


DIANA    CAREW.  48 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Warrington  is  wanting  to  see  you,  to  know  whether 
you  will  go  up  to  the  wood  to  lunch  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  she  returns,  icily.  "  Captain  Montagu  has 
promised  to  drive  me  there  in  the  pony-carriage.  Would  you 
kindly  shut  the  door  ?" 

"I — I  will  go  and  tell  her," I  stammer,  feeling  very  much  as 
though  a  door  had  been  shut  in  my  face. 

"  Pray  don't  go  away,  Miss  Carew,"  says  Captain  Montagu, 
coming" forward.  "You  look  the  very  incarnation  of  spring. 
You  bring  in  a  volume  of  fresh  air  and  a  scent  of  violets  and 
primroses  and  a  host  of  sweet  things!" 

Bewildered,  flattered  by  his  pleasant  words,  I  hesitate  on  the 
threshold,  my  hand  still  on  the  handle  of  the  door,  unmindful  of 
Mrs.  Huntingdon's  imperious  command.  She  gives  a  shiver, 
rises,  pulls  her  rich  draperies  about  her,  and,  with  a  frown  that  re- 
minds me  of 

•'  Great  Hero's  angry  eyes," 

eweeps  past  me  out  of  the  room.  I  feel  and  probably  look  crest- 
fallen, for  Captain  Montagu  laughs  lightly  and  says: 

"  Don't  look  so  frightened!  Looks  don't  kill,  you  know.  Come 
in,  won't  you  ?" 

I  shut  the  door,  and  go  forward,  as  I  am  bidden. 

"  And  how  did  you  like  the  dance  last  night  V"  he  asks,  in  a 
tone  the  patronage  of  which  I  might  resent  from  any  one  else. 

"  Very  much,"  I  say,  taking  off  my  hat  and  looking  fixedly  at 
it,  to  prevent  my  eyes  straying,  as  they  long  to  do,  to  his  face. 
"  It  was  the  first  I  ever  was  at." 

"  Really!"  (with  languid  curiosity).  "  Oh,  then  you  must  have 
enjoyed  it  intensely! ' 

"  Must  I?"  I  say,  still  not  looking  at  him.     "  Why?" 

"  Because  I  believe  it  is  delightful  to  do  anything  for  the 
first  time — anything  pleasant,  at  least.  At  all  events,  it  can't 
bore  you;  and  being  bored  is  the  curse  of  most  people's  lives." 

"  Are  you  often  bored  ?"  I  ask,  looking  at  him  with  a  great  de- 
sire and  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  real  feelings. 

"  Very  often  "  (smiling).  "  I  was  bored  last  night  when  you 
forsook  me  for  the  cornet." 

"  Were  you?"  I  say,  eagerly.  "  So  was  I."  And  then,  smit- 
ten with  shame  at  my  youthful  sincerity,  I  bury  my  face  in  a 
book  of  photographs. 

"  It  would  have  been  so  easy,"  says  the  seductive  voice,  which 
has  come  a  little  nearer — "  so  easy  to  say  you  were  engaged  to 
me." 

"  But  it  would  not  have  been  true,"  I  answer,  contemplating 
fixedly  the  portrait  of  a  grizzly  warrior  with 

"An  eye  like  Jove  to  threaten  and  command." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say"  (persuasively)  "  that  you  think 
there  would  be  any  harm  in  a  little  perversion  of  truth  like 
that?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  I  respond,  stoutly.  "  And  even  if  I  had  said  it, 
my  face  would  have  betrayed  "me.  And— a^  he  would  have 


44  DIANA    CAREW. 

felt  mortified.  I  hate  to  be  mortified  myself.  It  wouldn't  have 
been  doing  as  you  would  be  done  by.'' 

Charlie  Montagu  languidly  bestrides  the  chair  in  front  of  me. 
I  feel  his  laughing  eyes  (are  they  gray  or  blue  ?  I  long  to  look, 
but  dare  not)  straying  over  my  face  as  he  says: 

"  I  was  young  once.  They  taught  me  all  those  nice  moral 
little  sentiments;  but  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  a  good  boy;  I  didn't  act 
upon  them.  Good  heavens!"  (with  a  wicked  little  laugh),  "if 
people  had  done  to  me  what  I  many  a  time  did  to  them,  I 
shouldn't  have  liked  it  a  bit!" 

"  Of  course  it's  impossible  for  any  of  us  always  to  do  right,"  I 
say,  anxious  to  defend  him  even  against  himself. 

"  But  I  am  always  doing  what  is  wrong,"  he  answers  (mali- 
ciously making  the  worst  of  himself  to  vex  me,  I  believe).  ' '  Some- 
how I  seem  to  fall  into  it  naturally.  Ask  my  brother.  He 
would  tell  you  I  wasn't  at  all  fit  company  for  such  a  good,  well- 
brought-up  young  lady  as  you." 

"  I  should  not  believe  him,"  I  say,  with  some  warmth.  "  I  do 
not  believe  you;  you  only  say  it  to  tease  me." 

I  stop,  horribly  ashamed  of  my  naivete.  Oh!  why  was  I  sud- 
denly let  loose  from  my  rustic  life  upon  society  without  any 
preparation? 

"  No!"  he  says,  softly.  "  Would  it  really  tease  you  to  think  I 
was  a  miserable  sinner  ?"  And  all  this  time  he  has  never  once 
taken  his  eyes  off  me. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  anybody  was  a  miserable  sinner,"  I 
answer,  confusedly. 

"  Oh!"  (in  a  disappointed  tone — probably  feigned);  "  then  you 
are  only  a  general  missionary  ?  You  don't  take  any  particular 
interest  in  me  ?  You  would  be  as  sorry  for  the  footman  or  the 
gardener,  if  they  were  in  a  similarly  unconverted  state!" 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  please,"  I  say,  looking  imploringly  at  him. 
"  You  know  I  am  only  a  little  country- girl ;  and  I  do  so  hate  to 
be  made  fun  of." 

"  I  assure  you "  he  protests;  but  just  then  the  door  opents, 

and  Mrs.  Huntingdon  sweeps  in  again,  equipped  all  in  gray  vel- 
vet and  fur,  only  wanting  a  pleasant  expression  to  make  her 
exceedingly  handsome. 

"  Come,  Charlie,"  she  says  (whereat  my  heart  gives  an  indig- 
nant throb),  "get  ready;  the  ponies  will  be  round  in  five  min- 
utes." 

"  But  it  is  only  twelve  yet"  (looking  at  the  clock),  "and  it  is 
not  ten  minutes'  drive." 

"We  shall  take  a  drive  first,"  she  returns,  imperiously.  "I 
want  some  fresh  air,  and  so  must  you,  unless  "  (with  an  inde- 
scribable sneer)  "  you  have  imbibed  sufficient  from  Miss  Carew." 

I  feel  so  angry,  I  would  I  had  the  wit  to  rejoin  with  some  pol- 
ished sneer;  but  the  world  has  not  yet  armed  me  with  its  subtle 
weapons,  so  I  look  more  earnestly  still  at  the  photographs. 

"lues  ravissante,  ma  belle,"  murmurs  Captain  Montagu,  ad- 
dressing Mrs.  Huntingdon,  and  I  cannot  but  concur  reluctantly 
in  my  own  mind.  I  have  never  seen  so  elegant-looking  a 
woman.  "  But  such  a  toilet  is  worthy  of  something  better  than 


DIANA    CAREW.  45 

today's  occupation,"  he  resumes.  "  Faugh!  I  know  the  whole 
horrid  programme.  A  damp,  worm-eaten  summer-house,  and 
hike- warm  Irish  stew  out  of  a  tin-pan,  and  wedges  of  plum-cake 
— that's  the  invariable  menu  of  old  Warrington's  shooting- 
lunches.  Much  better  take  a  drive  and  return  to  lunch  here, 
where  we  are  sure  of  having  something  fit  to  eat." 

I  hold  my  breath  with  fear  lest  she  should  accept  a  proposal 
which  would  not  have  cost  me  a  moment's  reflection.  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,  to  my  infinite  relief ,  shakes  her  head. 

"  I  must  go;  I  promised." 

"  Raison  de  plus,"  he  laughs,  going  toward  the  door.  "  I 
did  not  know  a  woman's  promise  was  ever  considered  binding." 

Mrs.  Huntington  sinks  into  her  chair  by  the  fire,  holding  to  it 
alternately  either  small  and  delicately -shod  foot.  Not  one  word 
or  a  look  does  she  condescend  to  fling  to  me,  and  I  glance  furtively 
at  her  with  a  forlorn  conviction  of  how  little  chance  a  poor  un- 
tutored rustic,  like  myself  has  against  her.  But  I  recover  my- 
self when  I  remember  a  fact  that  I  have  forgotten  for  the  moment 
— she  has  a  husband  !  Blessed  thought!  It  restores  peace  to  my 
mind. 

Her  fish  has  come  out  of  the  sea;  she  has  hooked,  devoured 
him;  he  purveys  her  with  rich  garments,  with  much  store  of 
worldly  wealth,  for  which  she  requites  him  with  frowns  and 
Bulks;  but  my  fish  is  still  in  his  native  ocean.  I  have  not  even 
baited  my  hook  yet.  I  may  angle  for  a  triton  or  a  minnow,  and 
catch — who  knows  ? 

They  are  starting;  I  watch  them  jealously  from  behind  the 
curtain,  such  a  pair  as  limner  might  desire  to  paint  or  poet  to 
immortalize  in  love  songs.  The  frown  has  gone  from  her  brow; 
nay,  she  smiles  as  she  looks  up  at  him.  Yes,  she  is  very  hand- 
some, I  tell  myself  reluctantly. 

The  day  seems  dull  and  blank,  now  they  are  gone  and  the 
sound  of  their  laughing  voices  has  died  away.  And  this  time 
yesterday  I  had  not  seen  him.  I  lean  my  arms  on  the  table, 
resting  my  face  between  my  hands.  Whence  comes  this  blank 
feeling  that  spreads  a  chill  over  all  my  being,  that  makes  the 
day  seem  cheerless  even  in  the  noonday  sun,  that  makes  my 
heart  void  because  the  sound  of  one  voice  has  ceased,  that 
makes  space  vacant  because  one  form  is  no  longer  within  my 
horizon?  Is  it  love?  Oh,  unmaidenly,  immodest  thought!  My 
very  ears  tingle  with  the  shame  of  it.  Love  for  a  man  who  has 
scarce  spoken  half  a  dozen  words  to  me,  a  man  on  whose  mind  I 
shall  not  cast  one  faint  reflection.  No!  no!  no! — it  is  my  igno- 
rance of  the  world.  I  have  scarcely  ever  seen  a  man — certainly 
not  one  like  Captain  Montagu — and  my  foolish  eyes  are  dazzled. 
As  I  see  more  of  society,  I  shall  not  be  so  easily  impressed.  See 
more  of  society!  I  repeat  blankly  to  myself;  small  chance  of 
that!  And  then  somehow  a  sort  of  pain  comes  across  me,  a  pain 
I  stifle  quickly  as  ungrateful,  to  think  I  shall  go  back  to  the  old 
quiet  life  with  its  round  of  simple  pleasures  and  duties  that  have 
always  been  enough  for  me  until  now. 

Miss  Gore  disturbs  my  unsatisfactory  soliloquy,  and  we  start 
together  for  the  wood.  She  is  very  bright  and  pleasant  this 


46  DIANA    CAREW. 

morning,  and  chatters  away  gayly.  True,  her  conversation  has 
mostly  reference  to  her  soldier,  but  she  has  a  sympathizing,  if 
slightly  envious,  auditor  in  me.  To  love,  to  have  your  love  fully 
returned,  to  be  able  to  show,  to  speak  of,  to  be  proud  of  itl  And 
yet,  ignorant  as  I  am  in  love-lore,  I  think  I  would  prefer  to  in- 
vest it  with  sacredness  into  which  the  outer  world  should  not 
intrude. 

The  shooting-party  comes  up,  just  as  we  reach  our  destination. 
Lady  Gwyneth  is  "in  great  form,"  as  Curly  would  say;  she  has 
slain  five  pheasants  to  her  own  gun.  I  am  sometimes  called, 
absurdly,  tender-hearted;  may  I  ever  remain  so!  To  see  poor 
animals  suffer  has  always  caused  me  intense  pain.  It  seems  to 
me,  if  I  were  a  man,  I  could  not  love  or  regard  a  woman  who 
was  callous  to  the  suffering  of  dumb  creatures,  far  less  one  who 
would  delight  to  cause  it.  But  men — at  all  events  the  men  here 
— do  not  eeem  to  be  of  my  way  of  thinking,  for  they  flatter  and 
congratulate  Lady  Gwyneth  with  every  appearance  of  sincerity. 
As  for  Curly,  his  admiration  for  her  has  evidently  increased 
fourfold.  Even  Colonel  Fane  makes  her  a  compliment.  Why 
does  he  avoid  me  to-day?  Have  I  offended  him  ?  He  does  not 
offer  to  join  me,  nor  did  he  take  his  accustomed  seat  next  me  at 
breakfast  this  morning.  I  suppose  he  is  already  weary  of  me, 
despite  his  protestations  yesterday.  No  doubt  it  was  not  very 
entertaining  to  hear  my  simple  gossip  about  our  humdrum  life 
at  home,  only,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  politeness  forbade  him  to 
show  that  he  was  bored.  Mr.  Montagu  has  taken  his  place  at 
my  side. 

I  am  sure  I  wish  him  anywhere  else;  he  is  repugnant  to  me, 
somehow— I  know  not  why.  I  could  give  no  better  reason  than 
the  one  assigned  by  the  person  who  immortalized  the  unfortu- 
nate Dr.  Fell;  but  few  reasons  are  more  cogent  and  un-get-over- 
able. 

"  You  are  not  a  sportsman,  or  rather  sportswoman?"  he  says, 
as  he  joins  me. 

"  No,  indeed,"  I  answer. 

"  You  say  that  very  heartily,"  he  rejoins,  with  a  smile.  "  Your 
tone  almost  implies  a  censure  of  sport  altogether." 

"Yes,  I  hate  sport,"  I  confess,  frankly;  "it  always  entails 
misery  and  suffering  upon  something.  But "  (apologetically)  "  I 
suppose  men  must  be  amused,  and  if  they  had  not  something  to 
expend  their  energies  upon  they  would  get  very  effeminate." 

"But  confess,  now,  you  think  us  horrible  barbarians  for  al- 
ways wanting  something  to  torture,"  he  says.  "  I  don't  suppose 
it  is  very  manly  to  set  dogs  on  a  poor  timid  hare,  or  shoot  pigeons 
out  of  a  trap,  or  even  set  on  terriers  to  kill  a  barnful  of  rats;  and 
yet  do  you  know  several  of  your  fair  sex  whom  I  have  the  honor 
to  be  acquainted  with  take  supreme  delight  in  a  rat-hunt,  and 
enjoy  nothing  more  than  to  sit  for  a  whole  afternoon  exquisitely 
dressed  and  watch  hundreds  of  poor  birds  cruelly  maimed  and 
torn?" 

"  I  hate  a  cruel  woman!"  I  say,  vindictively.  "  I  could  not, 
no,  I  could  not  care  for  one  if  I  were  a  man — not  if  she  were  as 
beautiful  as — »" 


DIANA    CAREW.  47 

"As  what?" 

"  As  an  angel,"  I  return,  feeling  the  extreme  difficulty  of  find- 
ing a  comparison  that  people  who  make  hasty  and  impulsive  re- 
marks are  wont  to  do. 

"  An  angel!  I  never  saw  one;  but  their  style  of  beauty  as  de- 
picted by  the  limner's  art  has  always  struck  me  as  peculiarly 
insipid.  By  the  way,  I  never  remember  to  have  seen  a  dark 
angel,  and  I  do  not  admire  fair  women.  Then,  according  to  your 
idea,  I  suppose,  all  women  should  be  tender-hearted,  religious, 
modest,  retiring — in  short,  everything  that  ice  are  not?" 

Is  he  sneering  at  me  ?  and  why  does  he  look  so  intently  at  me  ? 
I  wish  he  would  not;  his  eyes  always  embarrass  me. 

I  laugh  rather  uneasily. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  what  women  ought  to  be.  Besides,  if 
I  set  up  a  standard,  I  should  be  expected  to  act  up  to  it,  should  I 
not  ?" 

"And  I  hare  no  doubt  you  would,"  he  answers.  Now,  of 
course,  I  know  he  is  laughing  at  me;  so  I  say,  coldly: 

"  I  can  at  all  events  tell  you  what  I  think  about  sport.  Sport 
ought  to  mean  equal  risk  on  both  sides — hunting  lions  or  tigers, 
wild  boars  or  grizzly  bears;  that,"  I  say,  emphatically,  "  must  be 
something  like  sport." 

"  I  am  afraid,",  he  answers,  laughing,  "  that  according  to  your 
ideas  sport  must  remain  unattainable  for  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  thousand.  But,  talking  about  risk,  I 
think  we  get  a  tolerable  chance  of  breaking  our  necks  out  hunt- 
ing, and  I  really  know  few  things  more  perilous  to  life  and  limb 
than  the  present  fashion  of  battue  shooting." 

Mr.  Warringtorrs  hearty  voice  here  summons  us  to  lunch,  and 
at  this  moment  I  see  Captain  Montagu  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
coming  slowly  up  the  glade.  The  sun  gleams  upon  them  through 
the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees,  making  the  thick-strewn  leaves 
of  many  years  into  a  ruddy  carpet  for  their  feet.  They  are  in 
truth  a  goodly  pair,  I  think,  looking  at  them  wistfully. 

"  Do  you  know  I  am  a  thought- reader  ?"  says  the  cold  voice  of 
the  elder  brother  beside  me;  and  I  start,  feeling  a  positive  terror 
of  him.  My  speaking  countenance  probably  betrays  me,  for  he 
turns  his  eyes  away,  and  says,  lightly: 

"  You  were  thinking  what  a  charming  toilet  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
wears.  She  has  perfect  taste  in  dress." 

But  I  know  that  was  not  what  he  was  going  to  say.  I  feel 
afraid  of  him.  I  almost  dislike  him. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DI  A  N  A'S      STORY. 

WE  are  seated  at  lunch— we  four  ladies,  and  as  many  men  as 
the  little  summer-house  can  accommodate,  partaking  of  the  fare 
which  Captain  Montagu  so  contemptuously  predicted;  only  it  is 
not  lukewarm,  but  very  hot  and  good.  It  is  by  no  means  de- 
spised, if  we  may  judge  by  the  zest  with  which  the  party  fall  to, 
Captain  Montagu  included.  He  thrqws  me  a  little  comic  smite 
across  the  table. 


48  DIANA    CAREW, 

"  Vappetit  vient  en  mangeant,"  he  says. 

"  Mine  came  before,"  I  answer,  in  the  same  tone. 

"What  is  the  joke?"  asks  the  elder  brother,  who  is  leaning 
against  the  door-post,  eating  his  lunch  under  difficulties. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  be  inquisitive.  Let  Miss  Carew  and  I 
have  our  little  secrets." 

"  By  all  means,"  returns  Mr.  Montagu,  coldly,  looking  any- 
thing but  pleased. 

For  my  part,  he  may  frown  as  much  as  he  likes,  as  long  as  his 
brother  smiles  upon  me. 

I  am  delighted  to  notice  that  Captain  Montagu  has  left  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,  even  though  he  is  devoting  himself  to  Lady 
Gwyneth,  whom  of  the  two,  perhaps,  I  dislike  the  more. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  my  prowess?"  she  asks  him,  with  great 
glee.  "  Two  brace  and  a  half  of  pheasants,  and  all  rocketers!" 

"  Delightful!"  he  utters,  in  his  lazy,  pleasant  voice.  "  How 
charming  to  have  a  wife  who  does  all  the  hard  work!  I  hope 
Desborough  appreciates  it." 

"  If  I  were  only  a  man,  I  wouldn't  mind  any  amount  of 
hard  work,"  she  rejoins.  "  I  should  be  no  carpet  knight,  I  prom- 
ise you." 

"  Like  me,  for  instance!"  (smilingly). 

"  Yes,  like  you.  You  would  make  a  lovely  woman,  and  could 
dawdle  about  all  day  choicely  appareled.  While  I — if  I  were 
you— would  catch  big  salmon,  hunt  six  days  a  week  in  the  sea- 
son, shoot  when  there  was  a  frost,  and — and — I'd  go  to  Mexico 
and  shoot  a  grizzly.  Oh,  to  have  had  the  immeasurable 
privilege  of  being  born  a  man  and  to  abuse  it  so  shamefully!" 

"  You  might  retaliate,  I  think,  Charlie,"  interposes  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,  maliciously.  She  calls  him  Charlie  before  her 
husband,  and  no  one  looks  surprised.  Perhaps,  though,  they 
are  very  old  friends. 

"  I  never  argue  with  a  lady,"  he  answers,  with  lazy  good 
nature.  "  With  my  deplorable  want  of  energy,  I  should  be  sure 
to  get  the  worst  of  it." 

At  this  moment  I  happen  to  glance  at  Hector  Montagu,  and 
see  him  cast  a  look  of  supreme  scorn  upon  his  handsome  brother. 
Yes,  I  positively  dislike  him.  Lady  Gwyneth  takes  no  notice  of 
Mrs.  Huntingdon's  remark,  but  continues,  petulantly: 

"  Men  have  everything,  we  have  nothing." 

"  I  think  we  have  a  great  many  privileges,"  drawls  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ingdon. 

"  What  may  they  be?"  flashes  out  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"  We  always  have  everything  done  for  us.  We  don't  have  to 
interview  bailiffs,  or  pay  bills,  or  buy  horses,  or  look  after  any 
horrid  details.  We  have  the  best  places  everywhere.  We  sit 
comfortably  at  the  opera,  whilst  unhappy  men  have  to  stand  be- 
hind us  on  one  leg." 

"  Pshaw!"  utters  Lady  Gwyneth,  contemptuously.  "  I  always 
interview  the  bailiff  and  pay  the  bills;  and  as  to  letting  Harold 
buy  a  horse,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  flinging  the  money  out  of 
window  at  once.  And  as  for  having  the  best  seats  everywhere, 
J'd  rather  stand  than  sit,  any  day — yes,  and  stand  on  one  leg  all 


DIANA     CAREW.  49 

my  life,  for  the  inestimable  privilege  of  being  a  man.  Men  can 
always  do  something,  always  go  somewhere,  when  they  are 
bored;  while  we  have  to  sit  at  home  and  curse  our  fate." 

"Lady  Gwyneth,"  interposes  Captain  Montagu,  laughing, 
"you  are  astonishing  Miss  Carew.  See  how  shocked  she  looks." 

Oh,  how  could  he  be  so  unkind  ?  If  I  am  silly  and  ignorant 
enough  to  show  what  I  think  in  my  unmanageable  face,  surely 
he  need  not  be  the  one  to  call  down  retribution  upon  me. 

"  Girls  should  be  kept  in  the  schoolroom  till  they  know  how  to 
behave  in  society,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  with  aggressive  rude- 
ness. 

I  feel  so  angry — I  never  knew  until  this  moment  that  I  had  so 
hot  a  temper.  Reply  is  on  my  lips,  but  ere  I  have  tune  to  un- 
close them,  a  champion  is  at  hand. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,  Lady  Gwyneth,"  utters  Colonel 
Fane's  quiet  voice.  "  I  do  not  think  innocent  minds  are  likely 
to  derive  much  benefit  from  listening  to  the  conversation  of 
men  and  women  of  the  world." 

"Hear!  hear!"  says  Mr.  Montagu. 

It  is  Lady  Gwyneth's  turn  to  redden  with  anger.  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ingdon knits  her  dark  brows  closer  together,  but,  before  either 
has  time  to  say  anything,  Mr.  Warriugton's  jolly  face  appears  in 
the  doorway,  and  calls  out: 

"  Come,  it's  time  to  be  off  again!" 

But  some  of  the  sportsmen  show  signs  of  defection.  Sir 
George  has  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  with  Mrs.  Huntingdon; 
Miss  Gore  has  evidently  tampered  with  her  soldier;  and  Mr. 
Montagu  says,  in  an  undertone,  to  me: 

"  I  would  much  rather  walk  with  you.  I've  had  quite  shoot- 
ing enough  for  to-day." 

But  I  answer,  quickly,  "  I  think  Mr.  Warrington  will  not  like 
to  have  his  party  broken  up;"  and  he  says  no  more. 

Keepers  and  dogs  are  waiting  at  a  respectful  distance;  the 
men  who  mean  shooting  are  shouldering  their  guns;  I  am  re- 
flecting that  I  shall  be  left  to  the  pleasure  of  my  own  company 
— when  Captain  Montagu  turns  toward  me  and  says: 

"  Miss  Carew,  shall  we  console  each  other? — we  seem  to  stand 
a  fair  chance  of  being  deserted  by  our  cruel  friends,  like  the 
babes  in  the  wood." 

Probably  the  pleasure  I  feel  at  this  proposal  shines  from  my 
eyes.  Hector  Montagu  looks  sharply  at  me,  and  turns  to  go. 

"Take  my  gun,  Charlie!"  cries  Sir  George  over  his  shoulder 
(with  questionable  taste,  /  think);  "  exchange  is  no  robbery." 

"Thank  you,"  says  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  haughtily.  • 

"  'Something  better  than  his  gun,  a  little  dearer  than  his  dog,'  " 

laughs  Captain  Montagu,  maliciously,  paraphrasing  the  poet- 
laureate. 

I  suppose  poor  little  Sir  George  meant  to  be  funny,  and,  like 
many  other  people,  did  not  know  until  he  was  told  that  he  had 
been  rude.  At  all  events.  I  see  him  doing  his  besc  to  make  the 
amende  as  they  stroll  down  the  giade  together.  I  wonder  at. 


50  DIAN^    -'AREW. 

though  I  bless,  the  taste  that  has  made  Mrs.  Huntingdon  give  up 
one  escort  for  the  other. 

"  Is  not  this  the  way  home?"  I  say,  as  Captain  Montagu  turns 
his  steps  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that  by  which  we  came. 

"You  are  not  thinking  of  going  home,  surely,"  he  answers. 
"Why  "  (yawning),  "  what  on  earth  will  you  do  with  yourself 
all  the  afternoon? — it  is  an  eternity  to  dinner-time.  Let's  do  the 
"  truly  rural,'  and  get  rid  of  the  odious  souvenir  of  Irish  stew. 
Faugh!  it's  a  barbarous  dish,  though  it  seemed  pleasant  for  the 
moment." 

Taking  him  at  his  word,  I  start  at  a  good  round  pace  for  a  con- 
stitutional. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Carew,"  he  cries,  plaintively,  in  about  a  min- 
ute, "  have  you  borrowed  the  seven-league  boots?  Have  mercy 
on  a  miserable  victim  to  patent-leather  and  corns!" 

"  Corns!"  I  repeat  (desperately  discomfited  by  the  thought  of 
a  hero  with  corns).  "  Corns!"  (looking  down  involuntarily  at 
his  shapely  feet);  then,  with  the  triumph  of  faith  and  sight  too, 
"  I  don't  believe  you!" 

"  Well,"  he  rejoins,  laughing,  "  it  isn't  my  fault  if  I  haven't; 
but  please  consider  that  I  have,  and  suit  your  pace  to  the 
idea." 

So  we  saunter  on,  side  by  side,  in  the  pleasant  afternoon  sun, 
across  the  crackling  leaves,  out  into  the  open.  He  talks  away 
in  a  merry  half-ironic  vein,  and  if  my  sense  does  not  approve  of 
all  he  says,  woman-like,  since  the  speaker  pleases  me,  my  heart 
finds  no  fault,  I  do  not — I  will  not — believe  that  he  is  as  selfish 
as  he  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  painting  himself:  surely  nature 
would  not  delight  to  cheat  one  by  making  such  beautiful  win- 
dows as  his  eyes  to  a  soul,  to  find  when  one  looked  through  them 
only  something  worse  than  nothingness.  Even  irrational,  incon- 
sequent mortals  do  not  put  stained-glass  windows  into  a  barn; 
and  should  the  fair  goddess,  who  does  all  things  well,  be  more 
foolish  and  capricious  than  they  ? 

We  have  arrived  at  a  stile;  he,  petitioning  me  to  rest,  leans 
against  a  post  beside  it,  whilst  I,  sitting  perched  upon  it,  hearken 
unto  his  discourse. 

"Your  charming  sex,"  he  is  saying,  "always  get  cherished 
and  taken  care  of,  but  what's  to  become  of  poor  fellows  like  me 
if  we  don't  look  after  ourselves  ?  And  you  have  no  idea  what 
selfish,  crotchety  old  brutes  fathers  are.  Now,  don't  look  indig- 
nant. I  know  you  adore  yours.  I  mean  men's  fathers.  Some- 
times I  make  a  feeble  attempt  to  get  mine  to  see  reason,  but  he 
won't.  I  know  lots  of  fellows  who've  got  the  same  sort  of 
fathers.  I  begin  by  saying  to  him,  suavely,  '  Pray,  sir,  did  I 
come  into  the  world  for  my  pleasure  or  yours  ?'  To  which  he 
replies,  with  asperity,  '  Not  for  mine,  begad,  or  I'd  have  had 
something  better  than  a  confounded  puppy  like  you!'  " 

I  laugh,  not,  I  think,  because  his  story  is  very  amusing,  but 
because,  standing  there,  the  winter  sun  shining  warmly  on  his 
face,  as  though  it  loved  him,  his  eyes  shine,  his  lips  curve  in 
smiles,  and  he  looks  so  radiantly  full  of  spirits  I  cannot  help  but 
smile,  too,  for  sympathy.  I  am  sure  there  was  never  a  more 


DIANA    CAREW.  51 

sincere  adorer  of  good  looks  than  I.  Be  it  man,  woman,  child, 
dog,  horse,  picture,  scene,  statue,  if  it  is  beautiful,  my  heart  goes 
out  to  it  for  it's  mere  beauty's  sat  e.  It  is  an  instinct  implanted 
in  me  by  nature.  I  cannot  alter  it;  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

"  To  which  I  reply,"  he  proceeds,  laughing,  "  that  granted  we 
are  neither  of  us  responsible  for  my  existence,  still,  as  I  am  in 
the  world,  I  require  to  be  clothed,  fed,  and  lodged  like  my  fellow- 
men,  and  that  as  he  has  the  onus  of  being  my  progenitor,  he  is 
bound  to  provide  me  with  the  means." 

"I  would  work  for  my  living,"  I  say,  energetically,  with  a 
forlorn  hope  of  stimulating  him  to  independence. 

"Work!  my  dear  Miss  Carew,  work!  but  I  positively  slave! 
You  little  dream  of  the  frightful  fatigue  and  exposure  I  incur  in 
the  service  of  an  ungrateful  country.  Could  you  but  conceive 
the  toil  of  field-days  in  the  park,  in  a  July  sun,  of  going  the 
rounds  on  winter  nights,  of  marches,  reviews,  guards  of  honor, 
above  all  barrack  duty.  Fancy  being  dragged  out  of  bed  at  half- 
past  seven  in  the  morning  to  go  and  inspect  slaughtered  carcases, 
followed  by  a  minute  examination  of  the  men's  rooms,  to  see  if 
they've  hidden  their  boots  in  their  beds,  spilt  grease  on  the  table 
or  floors,  or  committed  any  other  atrocity;  from  there  into  the 
kitchen,  to  be  poisoned  by  the  smell  of  onions — faugh!  that  re- 
minds me  of  that  horrible  Irish  stew  we  had  for  lunch." 

"No?"  I  say,  inquisitively,  "do  you  really  have  to  do  such 
things?  I  thought  the  guards  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  wear 
fine  clothes,  look  magnificent,  and  allow  themselves  to  be  ad- 
mired." 

He  laughs. 

"That  is  the  popular  superstition.  There  is  no  class  of  men 
so  fatally  misunderstood  as  we  poor  guardsmen.  We  ought  to 
have  a  chapter  devoted  to  us  in  that  book  called  '  Things  Not 
Generally  Known.'  Why,  there  are  lots  of  people,  in  spite  of 
that  sweet  thing  in  memorials  in  Waterloo  Place,  who  firmly 
believe  we  never  go  to  war.'' 

"Well,"  I  say,  pleased  to  find  he  does  not  live  altogether  the 
self-indulgent  and  sybaritic  life  I  had  imagined,  "  I  had  no  idea, 
really,  that  you  had  to  work  so  hard." 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  half  finished  yet.  After  the  onions  I  go  to  the 
tailor's  and  shoemaker's  shops,  where  the  bouquet  of  leather  is 
most  refreshing;  then  I  go  round  the  messes  to  see  if  the  men 
have  any  complaints  to  make  about  their  dinner;  then,  for  a  lit- 
tle agreeable  diversion,  to  the  hospital — after  which  it  is  quite 
on  the  cards  that  I  may  have  the  delightful  amusement  of  drill- 
ing defaulters  for  an  hour  in  a  blazing  sun.  Now5  then  "  (look- 
ing at  me  with  a  triumphant  smile),  "  have  I  vindicated  my 
character,  and  do  you  still  wonder  that  I  take  every  opportunity 
of  recruiting  my  shattered  forces  ?'' 

"  And  does  your  father  know  all  this  ?"  I  ask. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  constantly  remind  him  of  it,  and  he  says, 
pish!  and  pshaw!  and  pooh!  By  the  way,  Miss  Carew,  you  are 
the  latest  from  school — what  part  of  speech  are  pish,  and  pshaw, 
and  pooh  ?" 


53  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  Interjections  ?"  I  hazard,  timidly,  not  being  great  in  the  rules 
of  grammar. 

"  Interjections,"  he  repeats,  with  more  assurance.  '•  Yes,  I've 
no  doubt  that's  it.  My  father's  tremendously  fond  of  interjec- 
tions. Now,  to  let  you  more  into  family  secrets,  that  unreason- 
able old  gentleman  is  always  making  a  deuce  of  a  row  because  I 
spend  double  what  he  allows  me,  sometimes  more.  Now,  I  put 
it  to  you;  do  you  think  a  father  has  any  right  to  send  you  into 
an  expensive  regiment,  where  most  of  the  fellows  are,  or  will  be, 
well  off.  and  not  allow  you  enough  to  live  decently  and  com- 
fortably on  ?" 

"No,"  I  respond,  warmly,  "I  don't.  I  think  it  is  very  un- 
fair." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  my  dear  Miss  Carew!  I  knew  you  would 
say  so.  I  saw  from  the  first  that  you  were  sympathique,  As  a 
rule,  you  can't  conceive  how  frightened  I  am  of — of  unmarried 
ladies." 

"  Frightened  ?"  (with  an  incredulous  laugh). 

"  Yes,  frightened,  positively.  But,  as  I  was  telling  you,  my 
father  has  twelve  thousand  a  year,  and  no  expenses  but  keep- 
ing up  the  place.  Hector  is  not  extravagant,  and  there  are  no 
girls,  thank  Heaven,  to  want  dowries;  and  yet  he  has  the  inde- 
cency, I  can  call  it  nothing  less,  to  think  I  can  live  on  six  hun- 
dred a  year." 

"  Six  hundred  a  year!"  I  echo.  "  Why,  papa  and  I  and  Curly 
have  not  more  than  that  to  live  upon." 

"  Wonderful!"  he  says,  not  really  looking  surprised,  for  I  sup- 
pose he,  as  well  as  everybody  else,  knows  how  poor  we  are,  "It 
is  extraordinary  how  some  people  can  do  everything  upon 
nothing,  and  do  it  better,  too,  very  often,  than  their  richer  neigh- 
bors." 

"  But,"  I  say,  looking  at  him  very  doubtfully,  "  do  you  really 
mean  to  say  that  you  don't  think  six  hundred  a  year  enough  to 
live  upon  ?" 

"  Not  half !'!  shaking  his  head;  "  honestlv  and  truly,  not 
half." 

Seeing  that  I  am  still  incredulous,  still  unconvinced,  he  says, 
laughing: 

"  Ah,  it  is  very  evident  you  don't  know  much  about  the  great 
Babylon,  nor  the  wants  of  the  dwellers  therein.  But,  take  my 
word  for  it,  six  hundred  a  year  is  only  a  drop  in  the  ocean, 
even  if  one  were  not  a  careless  fellow  like  me,  with  refined,  if 
not  to  say  expensive,  tastes.  Uon't  look  so  horrified!  I  don't 
cheat  anybody.  My  father  is  the  only  sufferer,  and  it  is  a  capi- 
tal thing  for  his  liver  to  have  a  little  genuine  excitement  now 
and  then.  I'm  so  desperately  unlucky,  too,  in  my  attempts  to 
turn  an  honest  penny;  if  I  back  a  horse,  it  is  certain  to  go 
wrong,  and  at  cards  I  hardly  ever  know  the  sensation  of  holding 
a  trump." 

I  cannot  help  sighing;  it  seems  so  sad  to  think  of  him  fritter- 
ing  away  his  life  on  such  vanity  and  frivolity,  when  he  looks 
like  a  hero,  and  ought  to  "  ride  abroad  redressing  human 
wrongs."  I  have  no  right  to  preach  to  him;  it  is  impertinent 


DIANA    CAREW.  .   53 

presumptuous.  What  do  I  know  of  life,  that  I  should  advise  or 
warn  ?  And  yet  I  feel  such  an  intense  admiration  for  him,  I 
want  him  to  be  good  and  noble  inwardly  as  he  is  outwardly. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  I  say,  coloring  deeply,  but  putting  all  the 
earnestness  I  feel  into  my  voice,  "don't  you  think  there's  some- 
thing better  and  nobler  in  the  world  than  just  merely  to  live  for 
one's  own  pleasure  and  gratification  ?  Oh,  if  you  saw,  like  I  do, 
people  so  poor,  so  hungry,  so  wanting  every  bare  necessary.  I 
know  you  would  not  feel  happy  to  think  of  squandering  away 
money  on  things  you  don  t  want  and  that  can't  give  you  any  real 
pleasure." 

Thinking  over  it  afterward,  I  could  not  in  the  least  realize 
how  I  found  boldness  to  say  such  things  to  him,  a  stranger,  a 
man  of  fashion,  one  of  the  world's  spoiled  darlings.  I  wonder  if 
any  other  girl  or  woman  ever  ventured  to  speak  such  truths  to 
him.  Ah,  I  think  they  would  have  done  so  if  they  had  desired 
his  good  as  earnestly  as  I  did. 

When  I  have  finished  my  sentence  I  feel  abashed,  and  quite 
expect  him  to  resent  my  rudeness;  but  he  does  not.  He  looks  a 
little  surprised,  a  pleasant  smile  curves  his  handsome  mouth,  and 
he  says: 

"  What  a  charming  little  priest  it  is!  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I 
became  quite  a  convert  and  respectable  character  if  I  had  you 
to  talk  to  me  often.  You  would  soon  be  able  to  show  me  about 
in  a  caravan,  as  a  tamed  heathen." 

I  cannot  help  smiling  as  I  remember  the  conversation  between 
Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon. 

"  I  am  not  such  a  very  wicked  fellow,  after  all,"  he  goes  on, 
plaintively,  "  Now,  if  you  want  a  sinner  it  would  be  a  real 
credit  to  convert,  you'll  have  a  chance  to-night.  Rexborough  is 
coining.  Do  you  know  him?  You  must  have  heard  of  him." 

"  I  dare  say  not  to  know  him  argues  myself  unknown,"  I 
make  answer,  "  but  I  have  never  even  heard  his  name.  Who  is 
he?" 

"  He  is  Lord  Rexborough,  a  wicked  nobleman,  like  the  heroes 
of  some  fashionable  novels,  with  a  cruel  jaw  and  a  columnar 
throat,  deep-chested  and  thin-flanked  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know." 

"  Why  does  Mrs.  Warrington  invite  him?"  I  ask  innocently. 

"Oh"  (laughing),  "he  is  not  so  wicked  as  to  be  out  of  the 
pale  of  good  society,  and  he  is  very  popular.  He  isn't  a  carpet- 
knight  like  me;  he  hunts  lions  and  tigers  and  bears,  and  Heaven 
knows  what!  I  dare  say  you  will  be  enormously  taken  with 
him — won't  look  at  me  afterward,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

I  laugh  a  low  small  laugh  to  myself.  Then  I  say,  descending 
from  my  perch  before  he  has  time  to  proffer  assistance: 

"  We  must  be  going  home." 


CHAPTER  X. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 


I  FIND  it  a  very  unwelcome  exchange  when,  an  hour  or  so 
later,  the  party  being  all  assembled  at  five-o'clock  tea,  I  have  to 


54  DIANA    CAREW. 

listen  to  and  answer  his  elder  brother.  He  came  up  to  me  as 
soon  as  I  entered  the  room,  looking  half  displeased  and  yet  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  conquer  the  feeling. 

"  Well,  did  you  have  a  very  delightful  walk?"  he  asks,  in  that 
cold,  rather  sneering  voice  which  always  chills  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  reply,  stoutly,  "  it  was  very  pleasant.  The  sun  was 
quite  warm.  We  sat  on  a  stile  for  a  long  time." 

<(  Indeed!"  (knitting  his  brows  with  evident  displeasure).  "A 
delightful  occupation  for  a  January  afternoon!" 

"  It  was  quite  warm,"  I  answer,  a  little  maliciously  (what 
right  has  he  to  question  my  actions?)  "  and  we  were  talking." 

"  Conversations  at  second-hand  are  not  generally  amusing," 
he  says,  in  his  most  objectionable  tone,  "  but  might  I  be  privi- 
leged to  ask  what  was  the  subject  of  discourse  so  enchaining  as 
to  make  you  oblivious  of  cold  ?" 

"  Your  brother  was  talking  to  me  about  London,  and  describ- 
ing his  life  there." 

"Really?"  (raising  his  eyebrows  about  half  an  inch);  "that 
must  have  been  a  very  improving  conversation  for  you!" 

"  It  was  very  improving  for  me,  I  can  tell  you,"  breaks  in  the 
voice  of  his  brother,  who  has  been  standing  a  little  way  off  with 
his  back  to  us,  and  now  turns  round.  "  Miss  Carew  thinks  me  a 
shocking  bad  fellow,  and  has  taken  my  conversion  in  hand.  She 
began  this  afternoon." 

Oh!  that  the  earth  would  open  and  swallow  me!  I  feel  as  if 
I  should  like  never  to  see  or  speak  to  him  again. 

"  Miss  Carew  seems  to  think  she  has  a  general  vocation  for  re- 
modeling society."  sneers  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"Oh!  Lady  Gwyneth,"  cries  Curly,  flushing  a  little,  "you 
mustn't  be  down  on  Di,  please.  You  know  she  has  never  been 
out  before." 

Poor  dear  fellow!  he  meant  to  champion  me,  but  of  the  two  I 
think  Lady  Gwyneth's  speech  was  the  less  crushing.  I  bury  my 
face  in  a  book,  utterly,  thoroughly  discomfited.  Mr.  Montagu  is 
evidently  sorry  for  me,  and  tries  to  say  something  encouraging; 
but  I  do  not  even  reply. 

At  this  juncture  Lord  Rexboi'ough  is  announced.  I  look  up, 
prepared  to  adore  the  man  who  has  diverted  attention  from  me. 
His  big  frame  looms  in  the  doorway.  Now  he  is  the  center  of 
a  group  over  which  he  towers  by  a  head.  No!  I  am  grateful 
to  him,  but  I  shall  not  like  him!  Mr.  Montagu  goes  forward,  so 
I  am  at  leisure  to  contemplate  the  new  arrival.  His  hair  and 
beard  are  coal-black  (I  have  a  rooted  dislike  to  very  dark  men); 
his  face  is  bronzed,  the  features  large  and  coarse,  particularly 
the  mouth,  which  protrudes  from  under  the  heavy  mustache.  \ 
suppose  he  is  at  his  best  now,  responding  cordially  to  cordial 
greetings,  but  his  smile,  to  my  mind,  is  anything  but  pleasant 
— it  is  bold  and  familiar — and  his  voice  is  loud,  his  manner  bois 
terous. 

"  I  see  the  new-comer  has  not  displaced  yesterday's  arrival!" 
whispers  Colonel  Fane,  who  has  come  up  to  me. 

"  I  hope  no  one  will  ever  ask  me  out  again,"  I  retort,  pettishly; 
"  everything  I  say  is  wrong,  and  when  I  am  silent,  people  seem 


DIANA    CAREW.  55 

to  know  what  I  am  thinking  about.  It  is  very  evident  I  am  not 
fit  for  society,  and  it  will  be  a  good  thing  when  I  am  back  with 
my  pigs  and  chickens." 

He  looks  at  me  in  some  surprise. 

"  Now  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  I  say,  laughing  in 
spite  of  myself.  "  You  had  no  idea  I  had  such  a  temper." 

"  It  is  quite  right  to  have  a  spirit,"  he  answers,  "  and  you  hav< 
been  bullied  shamefully.  Please  forgive  me  my  share." 

"  I  forgive  you,"  I  say,  and  then  reddening  a  little,  "  I  cannol 
help  thinking  you  have  something  to  forgive  me  too." 

"  I?''  he  rejoins,  looking  surprised.     "  I ?" 

"  I  thought,"  I  murmur,  a  good  deal  confused,  "  you  were  a 
little  offended  at  supper  last  night.  I — I  gave  you  so  much 
trouble,  and  you  went  away  and  did  not  speak  to  me  again,  and 
you  have  not  spoken  to  me  all  to-day." 

He  laughs. 

"  I  have  been  doing  penance  in  keeping  away,"  he  says.  "1 
have  a  great  mind  to  tell  you  why." 

"  Oh,  do!"  I  cry,  eagerly. 

"Do  you  promise  not 'to  betray  me?"  he  whispers,  looking 
round  cautiously. 

"  Yes,  faithfully." 

"  Mrs.  Warrington  told  me  I  had  monopolized  you  too  much, 
and  that  I  might  be  standing  in  your  light." 

"  How?"  I  ask,  and  yet  with  an  uneasy  suspicion  of  what  he 
means. 

"As  I  told  you,  Hector  Montagu  is  the  heir  to  a  fine  prop- 
erty, and  Mrs.  Warrington,  who,  like  all  good  women,  is  a 
matchmaker,  has  selected  you  for  him,  or,  I  should  say,  him 
for  you." 

My  breath  comes  quickly,  and  I  answer,  in  an  eager  whisper: 

"  I  do  not  like  him;  I  quite  dislike  him;  and  please  don't  be- 
lieve I  am  so  conceited  as  to  fancy  he  thinks  anything  of  me, 
but  promise  me,  oh,  do  promise  me,  Colonel  Fane,  that  if  ever 
you  see  him  talking  to  me  you  will  come  up  and  join  in  the  con- 
versation." 

"  And  the  same  with  his  brother  ?"  asks  Colonel  Fane,  with  a 
slight  eniile. 

I  hang  my  head,  and  he  continues: 

"Do  you  know  Hector  Montagu  is  really  a  good  fellow  at 
heart?  it  is  only  his  look  and  manner  that  are  against  him,  and 
that  really  belie  him.  He  is  worth  a  dozen  of  Charlie." 

My  heart  gives  an  indignant  throb. 

"  I  dare  say,"  I  answer,  coldly.     "  I  know  so  little  of  either." 

There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Colonel  Fane  says,  a  little 
nervously. 

"  I  am  going  to  say  something  to  you  that  I  know  you  won't 
thank  me  for.  Charlie  Montagu  is  fascinating,  and  women  are 
very  apt  to  fall  in  love  with  him.  I  think  him  a  very  nice  fel- 
low; he  has  a  charming  manner,  in  spite  of  that  affectation  of 
languor  and  effeminacy;  but  "  (looking  keenly  at  me)  "he  is 
almost  the  last  man  I  should  like  to  see  a  sister  of  mine  give  her 
affections  to,  unless  she  had  a  fortune." 


56  DIANA    CAREW. 

Before  I  can  make  any  answer,  he  has  left  me,  and  is  talking 
to  Mrs.  Warrington.  He  is  right!  I  do  not  thank  him  for  what 
he  has  said — all  the  more,  perhaps,  because  dimly,  remotely  in 
my  heart  I  know  he  is  right.  But  what  then  ?  Captain  Montagu 
is  not  likely  to  bestow  a  thought  on  me,  and  I  (and  I  sigh),  I, 
when  I  no  longer  see  him,  shall  forget  him.  "I  will  forget 
him,"  I  say,  resolutely,  as  I  rise  to  go  to  my  room.  Captain 
Montagu,  seeing  my  movement,  moves  to  the  door  to  open  it  for 
me.  I  intend  to  pass  through  without  even  looking  at  him,  but 
he  lingers  a  moment  before  turning  the  handle,  and  says,  in  his 
most  caressing  tone: 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me."  I  look  up,  irresistibly  fascinated, 
and  smile.  Woe  is  me!  that  look  scatters  to  the  wind  all  the 
resolves  Colonel  Fane's  words  have  sown  in  my  bosom.  Light 
is  my  heart  and  swift  my  feet  as  I  ascend  the  stairs  to  my  room, 
where  I  fling  myself  into  a  low  chair,  smiling  happy  smiles  at 
the  bare  recollection  of  his  look  and  words.  Oh,  women  who 
have  grown  old!  who  have  lived  and  loved  and  suffered!  do  you, 
I  wonder,  lose  all  memory  of  that  ardent  spring-time  when  a 
look,  a  voice,  could  translate  you  into  a  seventh  heaven  ?  I  am 
still  dreaming  when,  after  a  vigorous  rap,  Curly  puts  his  head 
in. 

"Oh,  Di!"  he  says,  enthusiastically,  "isn't  it  awfully  jolly 
being  here?  I  never  enjoyed  myself  so  much  in  my  life  before. 
I  wish  it  could  last  forever:  don't  you?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  mind,"  I  return,  "  if  we  had  papa  and 
Gay,  and  all  the  animals  here.  Poor  papa!  how  dull  he  must  be 
without  us!" 

"  Yes,  the  dad,  of  course.  But  I  say,  Di  "  (regretfully)  "  isn't 
it  an  awful  bore  being  poor  ?  Only  fancy  if  we  could  have  swell 
parties  and  ask  everybody  to  our  place  and  put  'em  up  and  en- 
tertain them  in  this  sort  of  way,  wouldn't  it  be  fine?" 

"Yes,"  I  respond,  heartily,  "it  would.  But  you  know,  dear 
boy,"  I  add,  with  a  qualm  of  conscience,  "it's  no  use  repining 
about  what  can't  be  helped;  and  we  have  a  great  deal  to  be 
thankful  for.  And  after  all,"  I  continue,  thinking  of  Mrs.  War- 
rington's  guests  in  general  and  one  in  particular,  ' '  these  people 
who  are  accustomed  to  so  much  society  don't  seem  very  con- 
tented, and  things  don't  amuse  them  like  they  do  you  and  me." 

"  Bosh!"  retorts  Curly:  "that's  only  because  it's  the  fashion 
for  people  to  seem  bored  with  everything.  You  should  have 
seen  Lady  Gwyn  to-day — why,  she  was  as  keen  and  pleased  as  I 
was." 

"Oh,"  I  remark,  dryly,  "it  has  got  to  'Lady  Gwyn'  and 
'  dear  boy '  now,  has  it  ?"  Whereat  Curly  blushes  furiously. 

"Well,"  he  says,  defiantly,  "  you  seem  to  be  amusing  yourself 
too;  you  walked  off  very  coolly  with  Captain  Montagu  after 
lunch  to-day." 

It  is  my  turn  to  blush  now. 

"  If  I  had  not  gone  with  him,  I  should  have  had  the  pleasure 
of  walking  home  alone." 

"  He's  an  awfully  nice  fellow,  but  Lady  Gwyneth  says  you  ave 
only  wasting  your  time  with  him;  he's  a  detrimental,  and,  be- 


DIANA    CAEEW.  57 

sides,  he  wants  a  woman  with  money.  She  said  I  was  to  be  sure 
and  not  let  you  fall  in  love  with  him,  which  she  could  see  you 
were  beginning  to." 

I  am  too  wroth  for  speech.  I  cross  the  room  and  adjust  some- 
thing on  the  toilet-table,  and  Curly,  unaware  of  my  feelings, 
continues  his  oration. 

"  By  jingo,  Di!  I  wish  you  could  catch  the  other  one!  he  isn't 
half  a  bad  fellow,  though  he  don't  look  so  nice  as  Charlie.  He 
was  awfully  civil  to  me  to-day,  and  said  something  to  me  about 
his  mother  going  over  to  call  on  you  when  you  get  back.  I  say, 
only  fancy  you  being  My  Lady  with  twelve  thousand  a  year!" 

I  am  stilt  contending  with  my  indignation,  and  Curly  rattles 
on: 

"  It's  awful  hard  lines:  if  a  fellow  hasn't  got  money  he  has  to 
work  for  or  wait  for  it.  and  here  a  girl  has  only  to"  be  pretty, 
and  liked,  and  plump  she  drops  into  any  quantity  of  thousands 
a  year." 

"  Oh!"  I  say,  with  some  bitterness;  "  then  you  only  look  upon 
your  sister  as  a  marketable  object,  and  don't  think  her  inclina- 
tions are  to  be  consulted." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  stuff.     Lady  Gwyneth  says " 

"  Now,  Curly,"  I  cry,  within  an  ace  of  losing  my  temper, 
"please  not  to  tell  me  any  more  of  Lady  Gwyn's  delightful  theo- 
ries. Her  practice  is  quite  enough  warning  for  me.  And  as  for 
Hector  Montagu  "  (raising  my  voice),  "  I  would  not  have  him  if 
he  had  twenty-four  or  forty-eight  thousand  a  year,  or — or  double 
that  sum,"  I  say,  not  being,  as  I  have  before  hinted,  very  good 
at  arithmetic,  and  unable  at  a  moment's  notice  to  calculate  what 
double  forty-eight  amounts  to.  "  Besides  "  (calming  down),  "  it 
is  about  as  likely  he  will  ask  me  as  that"  (I  pause,  as  usual,  for 
a  simile ) 

"As  that  plum-puddings  will  grow  on  a  gooseberry -bush,"  says 
Curly,  kindly  coming  to  my  rescue.  "  But  a  truce  to  marrying 
and  giving  in  marriage/'  he  continues,  declamatorily.  "  Know, 

0  Diana,  that  the  festivities  of  the  evening  are  to  comprise  a 
dance,  and  that " 

"  A  dance!"  I  cry,  rapturously,  as  the  thought  of  dancing 
with  hint  (he  surely  will  ask  me)  flashes  across  my  brain.  "  Oh, 
Curly!" 

"  Quite  true,  O  goddess!  Lady  Gwyneth's  doing:  perhaps  for 
once"  (with  slight  sarcasm)  "she  will  have  done  what  seemeth 
good  in  your  eyes." 

"  It  seemeth  very  good,"  I  answer,  laughing  and  shutting  the 
door  upon  him  previous  to  commencing  my  toilet.  Never  be- 
fore have  I  been  so  anxious  about  my  personal  appearance,  never 
so  diffident.  How  shall  I  look  my  best?  A  sudden  inspiration 
comes  to  me;  I  will  wear  white,  spotless  white,  all  white,  unre- 
lieved by  the  smallest  dash  of  color.  When  I  am  thus  equipped, 

1  present  myself  to  the  eyes  of  my  brother,  who  is  in  the  agonies 
of  parting  his  hair  down  the  middle.     He  sees  my  reflection 
in  the  glass,  and  turns  sharply  round. 

"  I  say,1"  he  exclaims,  as  he  contemplates  me  with  delibera- 
tion, "you've  done  it  this  time!  By  jingo!  you  only  want  the 


58  DIANA    CAREW. 

parson  and  the  right  man,  and  a  what-you-may-call-it  over  your 
head,  a.  veil,  and  you  might  be  married  off  the  reel.  I  say,  Di " 
(coming  nearer,  while  his  face  widens  into  a  smile  of  satisfac- 
tion), "  you'll  take  the  shine  out  of  some  of  'em  to-night." 

His  words  are  homely,  but  a  compliment  turned  by  Lord 
Chesterfield  and  delivered  by  Sir  Charles  Grandison  would  givo 
me  less  pleasure.  One  may  always  rely  on  the  sincerity  at  least 
of  a  brother's  compliment. 

Mr.  Montagu  takes  ma  in  to  dinner.  To-night  two  daughter 
of  a  neighboring  baronet  are  dining — pretty,  stylish-looking 
girls.  Captain  Montagu  takes  one  of  them,  Colonel  Fane  the 
other.  My  neighbor  does  his  best  to  be  agreeable  to  me;  he  has 
dropped  his  sarcastic  tone,  and  tries  to  draw  me  out  about  my 
home  life;  but,  though  I  could  gossip  so  volubly  about  it  to 
Colonel  Fane,  the  confidences  Mr.  Montagu  invites  will  not  flow, 
but  are  strangled  into  monosyllabic  replies  to  his  questions.  Ha 
might  listen  with  a  polite,  even  kind,  show  of  interest,  but  some- 
how I  do  not  feel  that  he  would  care  to  hear  the  insignificant 
details  of  our  humdrum  life,  would  not  care  to  know  about  the 
accomplishments  and  abilities  of  my  four-footed  friends,  nor  the 
vicissitudes  of  their  lives,  nor  the  homely  sayings  and  doings  of 
Gay.  Least  of  all  do  I  feel  inclined  to  talk  to  him  about  papa. 
In  his  presence  I  seem  weighed  down  by  a  crushing  sense  of  in- 
feriority: nothing  surprises  me  more  than  that  he  should  seek 
my  society  or  care  to  talk  to  me:  to  save  niy  life  I  don't  think  I 
could  originate  a  remark. 

There  has  been  a  pause  of  a  few  minutes,  when  he  turns  rather 
suddenly  toward  me,  and  says,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  What  is  there  in  me  that  repels  you  so  intensely?" 

Taken  thus  at  unawares,  I  am  covered  with  confusion,  and 
have  not  the  presence  of  mind  to  utter  even  a  faint  denegation. 
He  hardly  waits  for  it,  but  goes  on: 

"  I  admire  that  exceeding  honesty  and  truthfulness  in  you 
that  at  this  very  moment  forbids  you  to  utter  a  civil  falsehood, 
as  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  your  sex  would  do.  I  am 
afraid  I  am  rather  a  disagreeable  sort  of  fellow,  at  least  I  seem  so: 
but  if  I  only  knew  how  to  conquer  that  sort  of — of  repugnano  > 
(but  I  hope  that  is  too  harsh  a  name)  I  inspire  in  you,  believe  m% , 
I  would  make  a  very  great  effort." 

I  am  quite  touched  by  his  tone.  Is  it  possible  that  so  insigniftv 
cant  a  person  as  myself  can  have  given  pain  to  this  apparently 
hard,  callous  man  of  the  world. 

"  Indeed "  I  begin,  hastily. 

"You  need  not  attempt  a  disclaimer,"  he  says,  gently.  "I1 
watched  you  all  through  dinner  last  night,  when  Fane  sat  next 
you:  ybu  were  bright  and  laughing  the  whole  time;  he  did  not 
do  all  the  talking  as  I  am  doing  to-night.  If  you  could  only  seei 
the  difference  in  your  face — yesterday  so  gay  and  animated,  to- 
night "  (with  a  forced  smile)  "  so  dull  and  dejected." 

I  feel  a  little  indignant  at  this  open  criticism. 

"  If  you  like  the  truth,  then,"  I  say,  bridling  up,  "  I  am  afraid 
of  you.  I  have  never  been  in  society,  I  have  been  shut  up  in  the 
country  all  my  life;  if  I  talked  to  you  about  my  dogs  and  cats, 


DIANA    CAREW.  59 

my  pigs  and  chickens,  how  you  would  sneer  at  me!  If  I  say 
nothing,  you  can  at  the  most  think  me  stupid." 

He  laughs  quite  a  genial  laugh. 

"  At  all  events,  I  have  roused  you  into  saying  something,"  he 
says;  then,  lowering  his  voice,  "  and  if  you  think  I  do  not  take 
an  interest  in  homely  country  pursuits,  that  is  because  my  face 
is  always,  unlike  yours,  expressing  what  I  do  not  think.  Now, 
there  is  my  brother,"  he  goes  on.  bitterly,  "  the  moment  he 
enters  a  room,  every  one  says,  '  What  a  charming  fellow!'  just 
because  he  had  the  luck  to  be  born  with  a  pleasing  expression, 
and  I  always  get  credit  for  exactly  the  reverse.  It's  all  humbug 
the  face  being  an  index  to  the  mind.  I  have  the  bad  luck  to  take 
after  my  father — only  in  feature,  though,  I  trust,"  he  adds,  de- 
voutly, "  and  Charlie  resembles  my  mother's  family." 

Sir  Hector  cannot  be  a  very  nice  old  gentleman,  I  reflect,  if 
both  his  sons  speak  so  undutif  ully  of  him. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  know  my  mother,"  continues  Mr.  Mon- 
tagu, warmly.  "  You  would  love  her,  and  she  you,  I  know,  she 
is  so  sweet,  and  good,  and  gentle,  and,  poor  soul!  she  leads  such 
a  life  with  my  father.  By  Heaven!"  (with  suppressed  fire),  "  if 
I  thought  I  should  ever  treat  a  woman  like  that,  I  think  I  would 
hang  myself  before  I  got  the  chance." 

"  Or  not  marry  at  all,"  I  suggest,  slyly, 

"Ah!"  he  replies,  gloomily.  "I  see  you  think  a  woman 
•wouldn't  have  much  of  a  time  with  me.  But  you  are  wrong," 
he  goes  on,  bending  toward  me,  and  speaking  eagerly;  "  if  a 
woman  loved  me  you  don't  know  how  good  I  would  be  to  her; 
you  don't  know •' 

I  am  destined  not  to  know,  for  at  this  moment  the  ladies  rise 
to  retire.  Part  of  the  ballroom  has  been  screened  off  for  our 
Terpsichorean  rites  to-night,  and  a  priestess  in  the  shape  of  a 
lady  who  plays  the  piano,  has  been  convened  from  the  neighbor- 
ing town.  I  am  tremulous  with  excitement;  will  he  ask  me? 
No,  Mrs.  Huntingdon  is  on  his  arm,  and  I  am  fain  to  accept  Sir 
George  (I  don't  yet  know  his  surname),  who  invites  me.  My 
envious  eyes  scan  the  splendid  pair  as  they  glide  down  the  room. 
My  partner  is  evidently  as  ill  pleased  to  watch  them  as  I  am;  we 
do  not  say  very  much  to  each  other.  I  walk  through  a  quadrille 
with  Colonel  Fane.  Then  comes  another  waltz.  My  heart  beats 
faster  than  ever;  will  he  ask  me  now?  No!  he  is  inviting  the 
girl  he  took  in  to  dinner,  and  his  brother  is  my  partner.  The 
waltz  is  to  be  followed  by  a  galop.  Mrs.  "Warrington  brings  up 
Lord  Rexborough  and  introduces  him  to  me,  and  I  am  obliged  to 
accept  his  invitation  to  dance.  No  sooner  have  I  done  so  than 
Captain  Montagu  approaches. 

'•  Miss  Carew,  I  have  been  impatiently  awaiting  this  blissful  op- 
portunity; this  dance  must  be  ours." 

"  Too  late,  my  boy!"  says  my  lord,  laying  a  heavy  hand  on  the 
other's  shoulder,  "Gad,  Charlie!"  (with  his  coarse  laugh),  "it 
isn't  often  one  gets  a  pull  over  you." 

"  Don't  have  anything  to  do  with  him.  Miss  Carew!"  laughs 
the  other,  gayly  linking  his  arm  in  Lord  Rexborough 's.  In  my 
prejudiced  eyes  they  look  like  the  Archangel  Michael  and 


60  DIANA    CAREW. 

Apollyon,  only  that  I  never  saw  the  two  depicted  on  such 
friendly  terms.  "  He's  a  mighty  hunter,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing: 

"  '  A  terror  to  the  Urnbrian,  a  terror  to  the  Gaul,' 
but  he  isn't  a  bit  of  good  at  dancing.     He'll  probably  tear  that 
pretty  gown  of  yours  to  ribbons,  tread  on  your  toes  and  lame 
you  for  life,  or  bring  you  to  unutterable  grief  of  some  kind  or 
other." 

"  He  only  wants  to  make  you  appreciate  me  all  the  more  when 
you  see  what  I  can  do,"  says  my  lord,  with  a  look  which,  if  in- 
tended to  fascinate  me,  had  precisely  the  opposite  effect.  "  You 
had  better  go  and  do  your  duty  by  the  lovely  H.,  Master  Charlie. 
I  see  her  looking  daggers  this  way." 

I  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  Captain  Montagu ;  not  only  do  I 
want  to  dance  with  him,  but  I  most  emphatically  do  not  want 
to  dance  with  the  other. 

He  responds  to  my  look,  and,  drawing  Lord  Rexborough  a 
little  aside,  whispers  something  to  him  which  escapes  my  ear. 
Not  so  the  answer, 

"Exception  proves  the  rule.  I  like  the  look  of  this  filly, 
clean-limbed  and  throughbred.  You  can  have  the  next  turn." 

In  my  disgust,  I  feel  inclined  to  turn  and  flee,  but  something 
stronger  chains  me  to  my  seat  and  makes  me  try  to  look  as  if  I 
had  not  heard. 

"This  fellow  is  quite  impracticable,"  says  Captain  Montagu, 
turning  to  me,  "  and  perhaps  "  (bending  down  and  smiling),  "  I 
ought  to  give  him  a  chance.  You  know  what  I  told  you  this 
afternoon." 

"  Come,  get  out,  Charlie!"  observes  my  lord,  with  his  charm- 
ing, polished  manner;  "  you  always  were  a  most  infernal 
poacher,  and  Miss  Carew  is  mine,  for  the  next  fifteen  minutes  at 
all  events." 

"Keep  the  next  waltz  for  me,"  whispers  Captain  Montagu, 
going. 

"  Don't  you  waste  your  time  on  him!"  says  my  partner,  face- 
tiously; "  he's  no  good  to  girls  on  their  promotion.  Wait  till 
you've  got  a  husband  Math  money,  and  then  you  can  take  a  turn 
at  Charlie,  like  all  the  other  pretty  married  women." 

I  am  glad  for  once  that  my  face  is  expressive.  I  do  not 
attempt  this  time  to  control  the  disgust  and  disapprobation  his 
remark  calls  up  on  it.  Lord  Rexborough  evidently  sees  and  en- 
joys it. 

"  Haw,  haw!"  he  laughs.  "  I  suppose  I've  put  my  foot  in  it. 
Fact  is,  I  hardly  ever  talk  to  a  girl,  and  hang  me  if  I  know  what 
to  say  to  them!" 

Mercifully,  the  music  begins.  I  say  mercifully;  but  which 
of  the  two  is  less  disgusting — to  be  stared  at  by  his  bold  eyes 
and  talked  to  in  a  style  such  as  I  should  imagine  a  commercial 
traveler  might  adopt  to  a  barmaid,  or  to  be  encircled  by  his 
odious  arm  with  his  hot  breath  streaming  on  my  neck,  I  am 
somewhat  at  a  loss  to  pronounce.  He  does  not  dance  badly, 
and  he  is  pleased  to  compliment  me,  in  his  delicate,  subtle  man- 
ner, on  my  performance, 


DIANA    CAREW.  61 

"  By  George!  we  must  have  another!"  he  says,  when  it  -s  over. 
' '  I  know  it's  no  use  asking  for  Charlie's  waltz,  eh  ?"  (looking 
down  in  my  face,  with  his  most  satanic  look).  "  I  saw  how  you 
frowned  when  I  insisted  on  my  rights,  by  George!  I  did,  but  I 
like  to  see  a  pretty  woman  frown — hanged  if  I  don't!  I  like  a 
horse  and  a  woman  with  a  spirit;  shows  they've  got  go  in  'em. 
Let's  take  a  turn  in  the  conservatory,  eh  ?" 

"  I  had  rather  not,  thank  yoH,"  I  reply,  stiffly. 

"  Do  you  good,  a  little  fresh  air,"  he  rejoins.  "I'll  bring  you 
back  in  time  for  Charlie;"  and  he  continues  his  march  toward 
the  door,  with  my  hand  cramped  like  a  vise  between  his  arm  and 
side,  so  that  without  positively  stopping  and  struggling  I  could 
not  get  away  from  him.  That  would  be  ignominious;  so  I  yield, 
solacing  my  indignant  heart  with  the  thought  that  no  human 
power  shall  make  me  dance  with  him  again. 

"Rattling  good  place  to  spoon!"  he  says,  when  we  have 
arrived  there.  "  Come  and  sit  down!"  (pointing  to  a  lounge  at 
the  farther  end). 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  answer,  curtly. 

"Nonsense!  you  can't  catch  cold;  hot- water  pipes  all  round, 
I'll  send  for  a  shawl  if  you  like.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  can  talk  quite  as  well  standing,"  I  say,  coldly, 

"  No  you  can't — it  is  unsociable,  and  I'm  awfully  tired — been 
traveling  all  day." 

Without  being  downright  rude  and  running  the  risk  of  offend- 
ing Mrs.  Warrington  through  her  guest,  I  cannot  well  refuse; 
so  reluctantly  I  seat  myself,  and  he  brings  down  his  ponderous 
frame  so  close  to  me  that  he  sits  half  on  my  dress.  He  evi- 
dently enjoys  my  embarrassment,  and  leans  toward  me  so  near 
that  I  feel  his  breath  upon  my  face. 

"  Now,"  he  says,  gloating  upon  me  with  his  hateful  dark  eyes, 
"  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  little  advice  about  Charlie  Montagu." 

"  I  think  you  are  rather  premature,"  I  remark,  flashing  an  in- 
dignant look  upon  him. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  he  answers,  composedly.  "  I'm  uncommon  quick 
at  jumping  at  conclusions,  I  saw  the  young  gentleman  open 
the  door  for  you  just  after  I  came,  and  how  you  looked  up  at 
him.  I  watched  you  when  the  dancing  began,  and  he  asked 
Mrs.  Huntingdon,  and  then  the  other,  and " 

But,  before  he  can  proceed  any  further,  I  have  wrenched  my 
skirts  from  him  and  fled.  In  my  hot  haste  I  run  into  the  arms 
of  some  one.  It  is  Captain  Montagu. 

"  Why,  Miss  Carew!"  he  utters  in  his  laughing  voice;  "  where 
are  you  rushing  to  like  a  small  whirlwind  ?  Do  you  know  you 
all  but  knocked  me  down';"'  Then,  as  he  sees  my  agitation,  he 
draws  my  hand  gently  through  his  arm. 

I  hear  a  heavy  footstep  in  the  distance. 

"Oh,  come  away,"  I  whisper,  excitedly;  "please come  away." 

He  complies  with  my  request  and  takes  me  across  the  hall  into 
Mr.  Warrington's  room,  which  is  empty  and  lighted  only  by  a  sin- 
gle lamp.  Without  a  word  he  leads  me  gently  to  a  sofa.  I  am 
ashamed  to  chronicle  such  incredible  foolishness,  but  I  actually 
begin  to  erf 


62  DIANA    CAREW. 

"What  is  it?"  says  Captain  Montagu,  soothingly  stroking  my 
hand  as  one  might  a  child's  in  trouble.  "What  has  that  brute 
Rexborough  been  doing  or  saying  to  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,''  I  say,  making  a  great  effort  to  recover  myself. 

"  But  you  would  not  be  so  distressed  if  it  were  nothing;  you 
would  not  have  been  flying  away  as  I  found  you.  Tell  me " 
(caressingly),  '•  and  I  will  go  to  him  and " 

''  Not  for  the  world!"  I  cry,  apprehensively.  "  Do  not,  please 
do  not  mention  rny  name  to  him!'1  I  repeat,  in  an  agony  lest  the 
wretch  should  tell  him  what  was  the  source  of  his  offense,  "  but 
I  dislike  him,  I  cannot  bear  him.  I  hope  he  will  never  speak  to 
me  again." 

"He  ehall  not,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  very  softly;  and  my 
mourning  is  turned  into  joy  as  I  look  up  with  courage  regained, 
and  see  his  handsome  face  stooped  tenderly  toward  me.  He 
still  holds  my  hand,  and  blushingly  I  retake  possession  of  it,  say- 
ing: 

"  The  waltz  will  be  nearly  over.'' 

"  Then  you  will  give  me  the  next  as  well,  will  you  not?"  he 
says,  caressingly.. 

When,  an  hour  later,  the  party  breaks  up,  I  chronicle  this 
evening  as  the  happiest  of  my  life.  I  have  forgotten  that  such 
a  person  as  Lord  Eexborough  exists,  until  Curly,  coming  in, 
says; 

"  What  a  splendid  fellow  Lord  Rexborough  is!" 

"Splendid!"  I  echo,  with  wide  open  eyes. 

"  He  has  been  telling  us  all  about  his  tiger-hunts;  and  he  was 
so  awfully  kind  to  me,  and  has  asked  me  to  go  and  breakfast 
with  him  at  Windsor  some  day." 

I  sigh,  but  say  nothing.  Curly  with  such  friends  as  Lady 
Gwyneth  and  Lord  Rexborough! 

"  What  do  you  look  so  glum  for,  Di?" 

"  Nothing,  dear  boy,"  I  answer,  not  wanting  to  spoil  his  pleas- 
ure by  moralizing.  "  I  am  sleepy.  Good-night." 

We  kiss  and  part,  and  I  fall  to  wondering  which  is  better, 
our  own  homely,  healthy  life,  or  that  world's  life  into  which  we 
are  just  getting  initiated. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NOT     TOLD     BY     DIANA. 

LORD  REXBOROUGH  is  rather  astonished  at  Diana's  flight. 

"  What  the  deuce  did  I  say  to  make  her  start  off  like  that?" 
he  wonders  to  himself.  "  I  only  meant  to  give  her  a  friendly 
word  of  caution  because  she  seemed  a  nice,  fresh,  innocent  little 
thing,  and  it's  no  more  use  her  thinking  of  Charlie  than  the  Em- 
peror of  China.  And  then  she  cuts  up  rough  and  flies  off  like  a 
young  deer.  Nothing  so  silly  as  trying  to  do  any  one  a  good 
turn,  particularly  a  woman  when  she's  sweet  on  a  man!  Well, 
I've  done  with  her!"  And  Lord  Rexborough  rises  and  saunters 
along  the  conservatory  into  the  hall.  Lady  Gwyneth  is  crossing 
it,  alone.  They  both  pause;  a  pink  flush  crosses  her  face,  he 
iooks  a  shade  embarrassed, 


DIANA    CAREW.  63 

"  Will  you  come  into  the  conservatory  ?"  he  asks  her,  in  a  low 
voice. 

She  shakes  her  head. 

"  No,  not  there;  in  the  billiard-room—it  would  seem  more  nat- 
ural to  find  me  there."  And  she  forces  a  laugh  that  is  hardly 
mirthful. 

He  follows  her  down  the  corridor  to  the  billiard-room,  which 
is,  as  they  probably  expect  to  find  it,  untenanted.  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth takes  up  the  cue  and  begins  to  knock  the  bajls  about.  Curi- 
ously enough,  she,  who  is  an  exceptionally  good  player,  misses 
more  than  once.  After  about  a  minute  she  desists,  and* faces 
him,  leaning  on  her  cue.  His  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her,  have 
been,  as  she  knows,  ever  since  they  entered  the  room.  A  curi- 
ous contrast,  these  two — she  so  viignonne,  white-faced,  fair- 
haired,  he  so  dark  and  big. 

"  WellV"  she  says,  at  last;  but  the  inflection  of  her  voice  is 
softer  than  it  is  wont  to  be,  and  he,  looking  at  her  with  a  search- 
ing glance,  asks: 

"Is  it  well'r" 

She  utters  a  little  scornful  laugh. 

"  Of  course  it  is  well.  Am  I  not  rich?  and  when  you  saw  me 
last  I  was  poor,  poor  as  a  church  mouse.  Am  I  not  heart-whole  ? 
and  when  you  saw  me  last"  (her voice  trembling  a  little)  "  I  was 
heart-brokei).  I  shall  never  break  my  heart  for  love  again: 
diamonds,  not  willows,  for  me.  And  you"  (turning  upon  him), 
"  I've  never  had  an  opportunity  of  congratulating  you  since 
that  tremendous  piece  of  good  luck  befell  you  a  year  ago.  Odd, 
our  happening  to  meet  here!  I  suppose  Mrs.  Warrington  never 
heard  of  that  little  episode  in  the  wilds  of  Ireland.  What  a 
good  thing  for  you  your  uncle  and  cousin  did  not  die  a  fortnight 
sooner!  I  might  have  been  Lady  Rexborough  now.  or"  (looking 
keenly  at  him)  "  perhaps  your  love  would  not  have  survived 
your  sudden  honors," 

"  Gwyneth!"  he  says,  in  a  low  tone  of  reproach.  He  does  not 
look  like  the  same  man  for  whom  willful  Miss  Diana  took  such  a 
violent  disgust;  there  is  nothing  coarse  or  harsh  about  him  now: 
the  dark  eyes  that  are  looking  down  upon  Lady  Gwyneth's 
quivering,  excited  face  are  very  sad  and  soft.  As  they  stand 
there  together,  their  thoughts  go  back  to  the  time,  not  so  very 
long  ago — something  under  two  years — when  both  their  fates 
had  seemed  as  different  from  what  they  are  as  the  mind  could 
well  conceive.  She  was  a  penniless,  free-hearted,  frank-man- 
nered hoiden,  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  peer,  and  he  was  Jack 
Blount,  with  no  expectations,  not  particularly  celebrated  for 
morals  or  manners,  "  a  bear,"  most  women  pronounced,  "  not  a 
bad  fellow,"  men  said,  "and  a  sportsman  to  the  backbone." 
The  two  met  and  fell  in  love.  It  happened  in  this  wise: 

The  Earl  of  Mallow,  Lady  Gwyneth's  father,  was  as  poor  as  a 
peer  well  could  be.  He  had,  what  many  poor  men  have,  a  large 
family:  The  sons  went  into  the  army,  and  the  daughters  ran 
wild  at  home.  There  was  no  going  up  to  London  for  the  season, 
important  as  it  was  that  the  girls  should  make  good  matches. 
Lady  Gwyneth,  the  only  one  old  enough,  was  presented  in  Dub- 


64  DIANA    CAREW. 

lin,  and  now  and  then  got  invited  to  London  for  a  few  weeks, 
to  stay  with  friends.  One  May  her  brother  brought  home  Jack 
Blount  for  salmon- fish  ing  (Lord  Mallow  had  some  of  the  best 
fishing  on  the  Blackwater),  and  Jack  was  a  noted  angler.  The 
invitation  was  given  in  this  way: 

li  If  you  like  fishing,  and  don't  mind  roughing  it,  come  down 
home  with  me.  I  can  promise  you  any  quantity  of  salmon;  and 
you  won't  be  bothered  with  women.  My  sisters  are  more  like 
boys  than  girls;  in  fact,  you'd  be  puzzled  to  know  which  they 
were.  They  can  ride,  shoot,  and  fish  as  well  as  any  of  us  boys." 

Colonel  Blount  rather  liked  the  idea.  He  did  not  care  for 
ladies,  he  did  not  believe  in  them,  and  thought  it  a  stupid  farce 
to  have  to  treat  them  as  if  he  did.  Poor  Jack's  experience  of 
women  had  been  an  unfortunate  one.  His  own  mother  had 
been  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  notorious  scandals  of  the 
day ,  and  from  his  father,  whom  he  adored,  he  never  heard  any- 
thing but  curses  and  invectives  against  the  sex.  He  was  brought 
up  religiously  to  love  sport  and  to  distrust  women,  to  look  upon 
them  as  enemies,  to  be  got  the  best  of  if  possible,  and  to  give  no 
quarter  to  when  they  fell  into  his  hands.  So  Jack  had  always 
been  used  to  steer  clear  of  ladies.  But  when  he  came  to  Ireland 
and  saw  this  intrepid  little  maiden,  who  would  have  alarmed 
most  men,  he  had  a  new  sensation.  A  fine  lady,  who  wanted  to 
be  waited  upon  and  made  love  to,  if  she  had  the  loveliest  face  in 
the  world,  would  have  made  no  impression  upon  him,  steeled  as 
he  was  against  these  subtle  wiles;  but  a  girl  who  could  bear  any 
amount  of  hardship  and  fatigue,  who  could  throw  a  fly  and  play 
a  twenty -pound  salmon  as  well  as  himself,  who  could  ride  any 
horse  they  put  her  on,  and  not  funk  a  big  jump  in  cold  blood- 
that  was  a  very  different  specimen  of  womanhood  from  any  it 
had  been  his  lot  to  encounter,  and  his  rough,  rude,  but  withal 
honest  heart  went  out  to  her  at  once. 

And  to  her  he  was  the  very  beau  ideal  of  what  a  man  should 
be— utterly  manly  and  fearless,  an  adept  at  every  sport.  She 
•would  have  thought  a  polished,  courtly- mannered  man  a  fool: 
but  Jack's  brusque  rough-and-ready  ways  just  suited  her.  She 
was  eminently  un-Desdemona-like,  but  that  fair  and  weak- 
minded  damsel  never  listened  with  more  rapt  attention  to  the 
Moor  than  Lady  Gwyneth  to  Jack's  adventures  in  flood  and  field, 
some  of  them  thrilling  enough,  though  told  with  due  modesty. 
For  sport  had  filled  up  the  crevices  of  Jack  Blount's  life,  much 
as  love-making  does  other  men's;  his  blood  had  been  stirred 
quicker  by  danger  than  love,  the  conquest  of  a  lion  or  a  grizzly 
had  filled  his  head  with  more  passionate  delight  than  the  win- 
ning of  the  fairest  of  women  could  have  done  hitherto.  But 
three  weeks  in  the  constant  society  of  this  little  Amazon  had 
given  him  fresh  thoughts  about  womankind;  lie  who  had  scoffed 
•with  many  a  bitter,  unseemly  joke  at  marriage  woke  up  one 
morning  and  found  himself  filled  with  one  great  desire — to  have 
this  little  pale  girl  for  company  during  the  rest  of  the  pilgrim- 
age thi'ough  life.  And  before  nightfall,  as  they  wandered  home 
together  from  their  fishing  expedition,  lagging,  by  mutual 
though  unspoken  consent,  behind  the  rest  of  the  party,  there,  iu 


DIANA    CARE\V.  65 

the  dim  wood,  the  trees  making  canopy  above  their  heads,  and 
the  dark  river  swirling  round  the  big  rocks  below,  he  told  his 
"  plain,  unvarnished  tale." 

There  was  not  much  romance  or  sentiment  about  them,  but 
their  hearts  were  none  the  less  honest  or  steadfast  of  purpose 
one  to  the  other  for  that.  And  so  they  gave  their  tryst,  and  he 
took  the  thick  gold  ring  from  his  strong  hand  and  gave  it  to  her 
until  he  should  replace  it  by  another.  To  this  day  Lady 
Gwyneth  wears  it,  not  in  the  shape  in  which  he  gave  it,  but 
beaten  out  into  a  heart;  and  she  wears  it  next  her  own. 

It  was  arranged  between  them  that  he  should  speak  to  Lord 
Mallow  next  day.  He  felt  diffident  about  it— he  had  so  little,  so 
very  little,  to  offer  any  woman,  much  less  an  earl's  daughter. 
But  that  same  night,  when  all  the  household  had  retired,  and  he 
and  Lady  Gwyneth's  brother  smoked  their  nocturnal  pipe  to- 
gether, he  heard  his  fate  in  this  wise.  There  had  been  silence 
for  some  minutes,  and  Lord  Vayn  had  fidgeted  about  uneasily. 
It  was  lost  upon  Jack;  he  was  following  his  smoke- wreaths 
up  in  the  air  where  his  castles  were,  little  thinking,  poor  fellow, 
how  a  few  minutes  would  see  them  toppling  down  into  ruined 
fragments  at  his  feet. 

Lord  Vayn,  having  thought  over  one  or  two  modes  of  attack, 
and  not  liking  either,  ended  by  blurting  out  his  mind  pell-mell 
without  much  consideration  for  his  hearer's  feelings,  only  anx- 
ious to  get  his  own  share  of  the  unpleasant  business  over. 

"  Look  here,  Jack,  old  fellow!  I've  got  something  deuced  disa- 
greeable to  say  to  you.  I  may  be  right,  or  I  may  be  wrong.  I 
hope  to  Heaven  wrong.  I  dare  say  you  can  guess  what  it's 
about." 

"About  your  sister?"  asks  Jack,  a  strange  nervous  feeling 
creeping  over  him. 

'  •  You  know  when  I  asked  you  here,"  proceeds  Lord  Vayn, 
rushing  at  his  subject  like  a  horse  at  a  fence  he  wants  to  be 
over,  "  I  thought  you  were  the  safest  fellow  in  the  world  with 
women;  I  thought  you  hated  them — you  always  swore  you  did. 
And  my  sisters  are  not  soft,  spoony  sort  of  girls,  Gwyneth  least 
of  all.  But  I  can't  help  seeing  that  she's  getting  fond  of  you, 
and,  as  your  marrying  her  is  out  of  the  question,  it's  no  use  play- 
ing the  fool  any  longer,  and  if  you're  a  gentleman,  as  I  take  you 
to  be,  I  needn't  say  anything  more." 

Jack's  heavy  brows  bend  together,  his  teeth  clinch.  For  a 
minute  or  more  he  makes  no  answer.  Then  he  says,  huskily: 

"I  know  I  have  very  little  to  offer  a  girl — nothing,  indeed; 
and  what  you  say  about  my  hating  women  has  been  true  enough 
up  to  the  present  moment;  but  I  swear,  if  you  let  me  have  her, 
neither  she  nor  any  of  you  shall  ever  repent  it;  and  I  don't  think 
she  is  a  girl  who  cares  much  for  money  and  luxury." 

"  I  dare  say  you  think,"  returns  Lord  Vayn,  with  some  heat, 
"  that  because  we  are  poor,  as  you  see  we  are,  the  girls  are  not 
to  look  for  much  in  their  husbands;  but  you're  wrong.  Because 
they've  nothing  themselves,  they've  got  to  marry  men  who 
have.  My  dear  Blount  "  (in  a  quieter  voice),  "  it's  useless  your 
thinking  about  it.  My  father  and  mother  would  not  hear  of  it 


66  DIANA    CAREW. 

for  an  instant;  they  are  furious  already,  and  I  have  had  the 
pleasant  task  delegated  to  me  of— of— well,  of  giving  you  your 
conge" 

Jack's  face  grows  dark  and  angry. 

"  It  is  rather  late  in  the  day,"  he  says.  "  You  should  have 
spoken  sooner." 

"Spoken  sooner!"  retorts  the  other,  angrily.  "Why,  until 
three  days  ago  it  never  entered  our  brains  that  you  could — 
could " 

"  Presume  to  aspire  to  Lady  Gwyneth's  hand!"  fini?hes  Jack, 
grimly. 

"Something  like  that,"  returns  Lord  Vayn.  "Hang  it, 
Blount,  it's  not  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  have  to  say  to  a  fellow, 
but  you  must  know  that  though  you're  a  very  good  fellow  in 
some  ways,  and  a  sportsman,  you're  hardly  the  sort  of  man,  in 
any  respect,  that  one  would  care  to  give  one's  daughter  or  sister 
to,  even  if  you  had  anything  to  keep  her  on." 

Jack  listens  in  silence  to  the  words,  whose  bitter  truth  goes 
well  home;  he  does  not  feel  any  anger  against  the  man  who 
speaks  them,  only  a  chill  pain  creeps  into  his  heart.  He  begins 
to  see  the  folly  of  which  he  has  been  guilty,  and  the  thought 
that  pains  him  most  is  that  she  will  suffer  for  it.  Poor  little  giii! 
He  heaves  a  bitter  sigh. 

"Can't  I  do  anything?"  he  says,  almost  humbly.  "If  I 
waited " 

"  My  good  fellow,'*  retorts  the  other,  angrily,  "  you  are  a  man 
of  the  world.  You  know  that  if  you  waited  forever,  it  would  be 
as  impossible  as  it  is  now.  And  I  am  commissioned  by  my 
father  and  mother  both,  to  say  that  under  no  circumstances 
would  they  hear  of  you  as  a  husband  for  Gwyneth.  Don't  make 
my  task  any  harder  than  you  can  help." 

"  That  is  enough,"  says  poor  Jack.  "  You  need  say  no  more. 
I  will  pack  my  things  to-night,  and  to-morrow  you  will  have 
seen  the  last  of  me." 

So  saying,  he  goes,  leaving  Lord  Vayn  savage  with  himself 
for  his  own  roughness,  savage  with  his  sister  for  her  folly,  most 
savage  of  all  with  his  parents,  who  have  thrust  this  hateful  office 
upon  him  and  lost  him  a  friend.  Somehow  he  feels  that  even 
rough,  downright  Jack  Blount  would  have  acquitted  himself 
more  tenderly  had  the  ungracious  task  been  his.  Jack  goes  to 
his  room,  and  begins  to  pack,  with  a  heavier  heart  than  he  has 
known  since  his  father  died.  Four  weeks  ago  how  little  he 
dreamed 

"  His  heart  would  ever  ache  or  break 
For  lovers  sake.r' 

He  had  some  poor  consolation  in  feeling  that  he  had  but  to 
speak  the  word  and  she  would  go  to  him  anywhere;  she  was  not 
a  girl  to  be  daunted  by  parents'  vetoes;  but  that  word  he  did  not 
mean  to  speak.  No!  now  it  was  put  before  him,  he  saw  how 

nr  and  untempting  was  the  fate  lie  had  to  offer  her;  parting 
n  her  friends  with  only  him  to  depend  upon  (and  poor  Jack's 
opinion  of  himself  was  the  very  humblest),  she  would  have  a 
hard  time  of  it,  poor  little  girl!  lie  told  himself.     One  thing  he 


DIANA    CAREW.  67 

bitterly  regretted — having  spoken  to  her;  he  blamed  himself;  he 
had  meant  to  speak  to  her  father  first,  but  it  had  slipped  out  un- 
awares. 

The  next  morning  Lord  and  Lady  Mallow  met  him  at  break- 
fast with  serene  faces,  as  though  unconscious  of  what  had 
passed  the  night  before.  They  made  no  allusion  to  his  depart- 
ure, though  the  dog-cart  was  ordered  for  ten  o'clock.  Lady 
Gwyneth  was  not  present,  neither  was  Lord  Vayn.  Breakfast 
over,  the  two  other  girls  went  out.  Jack  brought  his  courage  to 
the  sticking-point. 

"  Lady  Mallow,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  will  you  allow  me  to  wish 
your  daughter  good-bye  before  I  go  ?" 

Lady  Mallow  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  Better  not,"  he  uttered,  savagely. 

"I  ask  it  as  a  great  favor,"  says  Jack,  huskily.  "I  can  see 
her  in  your  presence,  if  you  wish  it  so." 

"  Under  those  circumstances,  I  think,  my  dear,"  remarks  Lord 
Mallow  to  his  wife,  "  we  need  not  object  to  grant  Colonel 
Blount's  last  request.  Will  you  fetch  Gwyneth  ?" 

Lady  Mallow  goes  out,  and  returns,  after  a  short  absence,  with 
her  daughter. 

Lady  Gwyneth  is  pale,  heavy -eyed:  it  is  easy  to  see  she,  too, 
has  heard  her  fate.  Poor  Jack's  honest  heart  goes  out  to  her; 
something  in  his  throat  chokes  him,  a  mist  gathers  before  his 
eyes. 

He  goes  up  to  her,  and  takes  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Good-bye!"  he  says,  huskily.  "  I  was  wrong  in  speaking  to 
you  without  Lord  Mallow's  consent.  I  forgot  I  was  poor,  and 
had  no  right  to  think  of  you;  but  I  know  I  could  have  made  you 
happy,  if  they  would  have  let  me." 

"Colonel  Blount!"  interrupts  Lady  Mallow. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  says,  once  more,  taking  both  her  hands  in 
his;  and,  looking  up  through  a  mist  of  tears,  she  sees  his  stal- 
wart form  towering  above  her,  meets  his  dark,  sad,  honest  eyes, 
and  then  he  is  gone.  Mechanically  she  stands  until  she  hears 
the  dog-cart  drive  away,  and  then  she  goes  away  silently  to  her 
room.  If  he  had  only  said  to  her,  "  Come  to  me,  and  you  and  I 
will  face  the  world  together,"  she  would  have  gone  to  him, 
would  have  defied  parents,  poverty,  anything,  everything,  for 
his  sake;  but  he  had  acquiesced;  he  had  bidden  her  good-bye; 
what  was  there  left  for  her  to  do  ?  So,  silently,  with  all  the 
more  in  her  heart  because  she  bore  a  brave  face,  she  went  away 
to  her  own  room  and  fought  it  out  alone. '  Somehow  she  did  not 
believe  he  would  give  her  up  tamely.  She  buoyed  herself  up 
with  the  hope  that  she  would  hear  from  him.  She  did  not  know 
that  the  strongest  argument  he  used  against  the  impulse  to  see 
or  write  to  her  was  herself.  He  was  giving  her  up  for  her  own 
sake,  and  that  lent  him  courage. 

But  in  time  she  gave  up  hope,  and  when  some  months  after- 
ward she  was  in  London,  and  Mr.  Desborough  proposed  to  her, 
she  accepted  him.  She  did  it  with  characteristic  frankness. 

"  I  do  not  care  for  you,"  she  said.     "  I  will  marry  you  if  you 


68  DIANA    CAREW. 

like,  but  I  shall  expect  to  have  everything  my  own  way,  and  to 
do  just  as  I  like." 

Mr.  Desborough,  who  was  not  in  love  with  her  either,  but  who 
was  particularly  anxious  to  have  a  lady  of  title  for  his  wife,  as- 
sented with  the  best  grace  he  might. 

"  I  hope  time "  he  murmured. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  brusquely,  "  time  will  do  nothing  more 
for  you;  but  if  you  like  to  marry  me  without  expecting  anything 
of  me,  it  makes  very  little  difference  to  me." 

So  Mr.  Desborough  married  her.  and,  by  one  of  the  strange 
ironies  in  which  fate  delights,  on  the  very  day  that  she  became 
his  wife,  Lord  Rexborough  and  his  son  were  upset  from  a  boat 
and  drowned,  and  Jack  Blount  was  sent  for  from  Mexico  to  reign 
in  their  stead. 

This  is  what  lies  between  them  and  the  past.  He  looks  at  her 
with  a  curious  emotion.  The  time  that  severs  them  from  their 
last  meeting  seems  doxibly  long  from  all  that  has  happened  be- 
tween; life  is  changed  for  him  as  her,  he  is  no  longer  poor  Jack 
Blount  with  an  indifferent  reputation  and  "that  unfortunate 
story  of  his  mother"  attached  to  him — he  is  my  lord,  whom 
mothers  and  chaperons  receive  with  open  arms,  whose  free  man- 
ners and  coarse  jokes  they  smile  indulgently  at,  as  proofs  of 
"  delightful  eccentricity."  With  a  certain  grim  humor  since  his 
accession  to  title  and  fortune,  he  enjoys  making  the  worst  of 
himself  before  ladies,  and  seeing  how  much  they  will  not  only 
tolerate  but  take  from  him  with  a  good  grace.  He  rarely  meets 
with  a  rebuff.  Diana's  is  the  first  for  many  a  long  day;  and  he 
likes  her  none  the  less  for  it.  But  he  is  not  impi-oved  since  he  was 
Jack  Blount.  And  Lady  Gwyneth?  She  is  not  improved  either; 
from  a  frank,  merry  hoiden,  she  has  become  a  fast,  brusque 
woman,  careless  of  the  world's  opinion,  and  only  bent  on  finding 
opium  in  excitement,  to  still  the  voice  that*  reminds  her  of  her 
spoiled  life. 

And  thus  they  meet.  Neither  has  a  guilty  thought  in  their 
heart  of  ever  being  aught  again  to  the  other,  and  yet,  however 
hopeless,  it  is  sweet  to  be  together  once  again — together  and  alone. 

"  I  watched  you  all  this  evening,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
wanted  to  find  out  if  you  were  happy.  You  laughed  and 
talked." 

"  Is  it  only  happy  people  who  laugh  and  talk?"  she  interrupts 
him.  "Oh,  if  so,  what  a  voiceless,  mirthless  world  it  would 
be!  Laugh  and  talk!  I  do,  all  day  and  half  the  night;  and 
yet " 

"  Who  is  happy?"  he  answers.  "  One  now  and  then,  perhaps, 
It  is  happiness  to  kill  a  wild  beast  that  has  been  within  an  ace  of 
killing  you:  it  is  happiness  to  land  a  big  salmon  you  have  played 
for  an  hour— you  know  that;  it  is  happiness  to  be  well  up  in  a 
good  run  on  a  good  horse.  But  those  things  don't  last.  If  I 
knew  what  the  hereafter  was,  if  there  is  one,  or,  better  still,  if 
there  is  none,  I  should  say  it  was  happiest  of  all  to  be  lying 
fathoms  deep  under  the  sea,  or  on  a  battle-field  with  your  foe 
under  you,  and  a  bullet  through  your  heart." 

The  speech  was  eminently  characteristic  of  the  man,     Lady 


DIANA    CAREW.  69 

Owyneth  recognized  the  old  Jack  Blount  in  it,  and  smiled  a  lit- 
tle sadly  to  herself. 

"  You  used  to  talk  to  me  like  that  long  ago,"  she  says.  "  I  did 
not  understand  you  then;  I  thought  life  a  happy  thing;  but  I  can 
understand  you  well  enough  now." 

"Are  you  really  unhappy?"  he  asks,  anxiously. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  husband  'f-  she  says,  briefly.  "  Well,  you 
know  what  I  was,  frank,  high-spirited,  outspoken.  What  do 
you  think  the  effect  would  be  on  me  of  being  tied  to  a  man 
whom  I  despise  "  (with  a  gesture  of  loathing).  "  despise,  oh,  more 
than  any  words  can  tell!  All  my  nature  is  changed;  I  hate  my- 
self tuo:  I  treat  him  shamefully,  yes!  I  know  it  quite  as  well  as 
other  people  can  tell  me;  and  yet  something  in  me  won't  let  me 
alter  myself— I  can't.  Why  does  he  not  turn  round  upon  me? 
I  should  respect  him  far  more  if  he  flew  into  a  passion  with  me 
or  bullied  me;  but  he  is  afraid  of  me — afraid  of  me  /" 

"  You  are  a  very  little  woman,"  says  Lord  Rexborough,  smil- 
ing, "  but  I  expect  you  can  be  rather  terrible." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  asks,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face. 
"  Then  "  (sighing)  "  I  suppose  I  have  become  rather  a  vixen." 

The  door  opens.  Mr.  Warrington  and  Colonel  Fane  come  in. 
Neither  knows  the  story  of  these  two,  or  dreams  of  interrupting 
a  tete-a-tete.  Mr.  Warrington  challenges  Lady  Gwyneth  to  a 
game  of  billiards,  and,  as  she  plays,  Lord  Rexborough,  whilst 
carrying  on  a  conversation  with  Colonel  Fane,  watches  her,  and 
thinks  somehow  that  the  cotton  gown  in  which  she  used  to  trip 
round  the  worn  old  billiard  table  at  home  became  her  better 
than  the  costly  lace  and  diamonds  of  to-night;  anyhow,  it  seemed 
more  appropriate. 

Presently  Mrs.  Huntingdon  comes  in  with  Captain  Montagu. 

" Charlie,"  cries  Lord  Rexborough,  "I'm  afraid  I  frightened 
that  poor  little  friend  of  yours.  I'm  too  rough  for  her;  she 
won't  have  me  at  any  price." 

"  Really,"  utters  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  impatiently.  "  I  am  getting 
perfectly  sick  of  that  girl.  Her  virtuous  airs  are  quite  insuffer- 
able." 

"I  don't  think  they  are  airs,"  interposes  Colonel  Fane.  "I 
fancy  the  virtue  is  quite  natural." 

"How  down  you  women  always  are  upon  each  other,"  says 
Lord  Rexborough.  "  You  can  never  forgive  each  other  for  being 
pretty." 

"Pretty!"  interrupts  Lady  Gwyneth:  "I  should  hardly  call 
her  that:  she  has  the  beaute  de  (.liable,  freshness." 

"Really.  Lady  Gwyneth,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  "I  think 
you  must  allow  that  she  is  pretty." 

"  Decidedly  pretty!"  the  other  men  agree. 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  lifts  her  handsome  eyes  scornfully. 

"  I  never  knew  a  more  striking  instance  of  beauty  being  '  in 
the  eye  of  the  beholder,'  "  she  says,  throwing  herself  into  a  low 
chair. 

"  Hush!  here  is  the  boy!"  whispers  Colonel  Fane. 


70  DIANA    CAREW. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

DIANA'S      STORY. 

THE  days  go  swiftly  by;  every  morning  1  say  to  myself,  "  I  am 
a  day  nearer  to  papa  and  Gay  and  the  animals;"  and  yet,  it  is  no 
unfaitb  or  treachery  to  them,  there  is  something  so  fascinating 
and  desirable  in  this  unaccustomed  life  that  I  cannot  think  of 
leaving  it  without  a  pang.  After  the  luxury,  the  flattery  and 
laughter,  the  old  home  will  seem  quiet  and  dull  and  somber, 
but  it  is  not  that— oh,  not  that!  I  do  not  think  I  should  ever  be 
one  of  those  who  think  meanly  of  a  friend  because  he  wears  a 
shabby  coat.  It  is  not  the  dullness  or  the  poverty  of  home  that 
frightens  me,  it  is  the  thought  that  I  shall  lose  the  sight  of  one 
face,  the  sound  of  one  voice,  that  my  poor  foolish  eyes  and  ears 
have  grown  to  feast  on.  A  cold  chill  strikes  my  heart  every 
time  I  remember  that  a  few  days,  such  a  few  days  hence,  he  will 
have  gone  forever  out  of  my  life.  And  I  am  nothing  to  him!  he 
will  go  on  with  his  gay  pleasant  life,  which  no  faintest  recollec- 
tion of  the  little  country-bred  girl  will  cross. 

One  evening  .again  I  sing;  he  does  not  come  near  me,  nor 
thank  me,  as  the  others  do.  But  later  he  comes  and  whispers  to 
me: 

"  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great  favor.    Will  you  ?" 

My  eyes  glisten.     What  would  I  not  do  to  favor  him? 

"  I  have  a  passion  for  singing — some  singing — like  yours.  The 
opera,  as  a  rule,  bores  me  to  death,  except  a  few  of  those  lovely, 

Elaintive  solos.  After  all,  I  would  rather  hear  Patti  sing '  Home, 
weet  Home,'  than  all  the  operas  in  creation.  I'm  awfully  fond 
of  hymn-tunes,  those  lovely  ones  they  sing  at  Wells  Street  (ah!  I 
forgot  you  don't  know  London).  I  go  there  nearly  every  Sun- 
day afternoon.  But  best  of  all  I  love  to  sit  in  an  arm-chair  and 
listen  to  those  dear  old-fashioned  ballads  sung  by  a  voice  like 
yours.  Not  that  I  often  get  the  chance;  I  have  not  heard  many 
such.  The  only  time  I  ever  feel  as  if  I  had  a  soul  is  when  I  listen 
to  sweet  singing.  I  think"  (smiling)  "you  might  quite  convert 
me  with  your  voice;  you  know  Orpheus  charmed  the  wild  beasts 
with  his  lyre,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  think  me  far  removed 
from  them." 

I  laugh  from  sheer  happiness  at  his  praise. 

"  But  the  favor  V"  I  say,  interrogatively. 

"  I  want " (bending  still  nearer) — "I  want  you  to  sing  to  me 
alone." 

"  Alone  ?"  I  repeat;  "  but  how  can  -I?  Do  you  mean  to  ask  all 
the  other  people  to  go  out  of  the  room  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  make  a  rendezvous  with  me  for  to-morrow. 
Every  one  goes  out  in  the  afternoon!  Say  you  have  a  headache 
and  stop  at  home." 

"  But  I  never  had  a  headache  in  my  life." 

"  No  ?  I  thought  ladies  always  had  headaches  as  often  as  they 
liked.  What  is  your  particular  complaint  when  you  want  an 
excuse  ?" 


DIANA    CAEEW.  71 

"  I  never  do  want  one.  I  have  only  to  say  to  papa  '  I  wish  to 
go  out;'  or,  '  I  wish  to  stay  at  home,'  and  he  never  questions  it." 

"  I  wish  my  papa,  was  like  that!"  laughs  Captain  Montagu. 
"Unfortunately,  he  is  the  exact  opposite  of  yours.  But  come'1 
(persuasively),  ' '  do  manage  it  forme  somehow,  and  I  shall  be 
ever  so  grateful  to  you." 

I  should  dearly  like  to  do  what  he  asks  me — there  could  be  no 
harm  in  singing  to  him;  but  to  scheme  to  be  alone  with  him, 
even  for  so  innocent  a  purpose!    No;  impossible. 

"  I  would  sing  to  you  for  hours,  and  welcome,''  I  say,  "  but 
we  must  take  our  chance  of  there  being  some  one  else  "present 
who  might  object." 

"I  tell  you  how  we'll  manage  it:  we'll  start  for  a  walk  with 
Miss  Gore  and  Irvine,  they  always  walk— I  suppose''  (laughing) 
"  because  it's  the  only  chance  they  have  of  getting  away  from 
their  kind  here  They  are  sure  to  lose  us,  or  we  them,  and  then 
we  will  come  back  and  have  it  all  to  ourselves.  Shall  we  ?" 

A  guilty  joy  steals  across  me  as  I  smile  consent,  and  then  he 
leaves  me,  and  his  brother,  who  has  been  scowling  at  us  from 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  takes  his  place. 

"  What  has  my  brother  been  imparting  to  you  that  makes  you 
look  so  happy  ?"  he  asks,  in  his  cold  voice. 

"  If  I  look  happy,"  I  retort,  rather  indignantly,  "  it  is  because 
T  reflect  the  faces  of  the  people  I  talk  to,  Your  brother  smiles 
and  looks  pleasant,  so  I  do  the  same." 

"And  you  are  reflecting  my  face  now.  I  suppose,"  he  says, 
with  slight  sarcasm.  "Your  expression  is  quite  different  from 
what  it  was  a  moment  ago.' 

"  Probably,"  I  reply,  for  I  am  considerably  nettled  by  his  con- 
stant personalities 

He  gnaws  his  lips  for  a  moment,  and  then  says,  much  more 
softly : 

"  I  wish  I  had  the  knack  of  pleasing  you!  Do  you  know  I 
long  sometimes  to  play  eavesdropper,  and  hear  what  those  fel- 
lows say  who  make  you  smile  and  look  so  bright  ?" 

"  You  would  not  hear  much  wit  or  wisdom,"  I  respond,  relax- 
ing into  a  smile,  "the  subject  of  our  mirth  would  probably 
cause  you  to  embrace  us  all  in  one  supreme  and  infinite  con- 
tempt." 

II  Why  will  you  persist  in  thinking  me  such  a  prig?"  he  says, 
impatiently.     "  Do  you  think  1  cannot  laugh  and  be  gay  and 
amused  too  ?" 

1  look  askance  at  him,  and  answer,  doubtfully,  "  I  don't  know; 
1  dare  say." 

He  laughs  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  never  was  a  boy  and  trundled  a  hoop 
or  played  marbles  ?' 

For  once  he  succeeds  in  making  me  laugh,  as  my  vivid  imag- 
ination pictures  the  grave  and  dignified  individual  before  me  oc- 
cupied with  such  useful  pastimes 

"  You  see,"  I  say,  when  I  recover  myself,  "  what  a  small  thing 
it  takes  to  amuse  me.' 

"  Anyhow,  I  am  fortunate  to  have  done  so  once  I'  he  observes, 


72  DIANA    CAREW. 

quite  good -temper  edly;  and,  having  so  far  broken  the  ice,  we  con- 
tinue quite  friendly  for  the  short  time  that  remains  before  the 
party  breaks  up  for  the  night. 

I  go  to  my  room  exuberantly  happy  at  the  thought  of  to-mor- 
rows's  programme,  but  trembling,  too,  for  fear  something  may 
interfere  with  it.  But  it  comes  to  pass  as  he  has  decreed.  Most 
of  the  gentlemen  are  shooting — all,  indeed,  except  Captain  Mon- 
tagu. Miss  Gore's  lover,  and  Lord  Rexborough,  who  has  gone 
hunting  with  Lady  Gwyneth.  We  start  for  our  walk,  and  indue 
course  lose  our  companions,  and  little  more  than  half  an  hour 
later  we  are  back  in  Mrs.  Warrington's  boudoir,  I  at  the  piano, 
Captain  Montagu  a  little  distance  off.  buried  in  the  easiest  chair 
in  the  room.  His  eyes  are  shut,  and  his  face  slightly  averted 
from  me, 

"  I  am  not  asleep,'  he  says,  ';  but  I  cannot  use  my  eyes  and 
ears  both;  and  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  world  looks  less  pretty 
with  her  mouth  open,  singing.  I  shall  not  say,  '  Thank  you;; 
and  please  not  to  stop  for  a  long  time." 

So  I  sing  on  and  on,  more  anxious  to  give  him  pleasure  than  ] 
could  feel  to  win  the  approbation  of  a  thousand  other  folk. 
Once  now  and  then  I  let  my  eyes  steal  over  his  face  with  secret 
delight,  and  still  I  sing  on. 

It  begins  to  grow  dusk — the  days  are  at  their  shortest.  I  look 
at  the  clock;  it  is  a  whole  hour  since  I  sat  down.  I  close  the 
piano  softly,  not  altogether  sure  that  my  voice  has  not  had  the 
soothing  though  unflattering  effect  of  sending  him  to  sleep,  but 
no  sooner  have  I  done  so  than  he  opens  his  eyes,  and,  rising, 
comes  toward  me. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  says,  softly,  bending  down  to  me,  "do 
you  know  that  you  have  given  me  more  pleasure  than  I  have  felt 
for  years  ?  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  have  enjoyed  this  afternoon. 
You  are  not  tired,  are  you?"  (tenderly).  "  I  am  such  a  selfish 
brute — I  am  afraid  I  never  think  of  any  one  but  myself." 

"  I  am  glad  if  I  have  pleased  you,''  I  say,  looking  at  him,  but 
turning  my  eyes  as  quickly  away  again^  feeling.  I  know  not 
why,  unable  to  meet  his  gaze.  There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and 
then  he  stretches  out  his  hand  and  takes  one  of  mine  which  lies 
on  the  closed  piano.  His  touch  fills  me  like  an  electric  flame — 
I  scarce  know  if  it  be  pain  or  pleasure.  At  this  moment  I  hear 
two  laughs,  one  loud,  one  shrill.  Burning  with  shame,  I  essay 
to  tear  my  hand  away,  but  Captain  Montagu  holds  it  tightly. 
He  is  not  one  whit  embarrassed, 

"I  am  giving  Miss  Carew  a  lesson  in  palmistry,"  he  says, 
coolly.  "  Do  you  understand  the  science,  Lady  Gwyneth  ?" 

"  I  think  I  do,  as  practiced  by  you,"  she  answers,  with  a  burst 
of  merriment,  in  which  Lord  Rexborough's  voice  joins. 

Captain  Montagu  opens  my  reluctant  palm  with  gentle  force. 

"She  has  a  very  long  line  of  life,"  he  remarks,  imperturbably 
gazing  into  it. 

"  How  about  the  line  of  the  heart,  eh,  Charlie?"  roars  my  lord, 
approaching.  "  Let's  have  a  look." 

As  he  approaches,  I  tear  my  hand  away  and  put  both  behind 
my  back. 


DIANA    CAREW.  73 

"  What  a  timid  little  dove  it  is!"  he  cries.  "  Lady  Gwyneth, 
how  is  it  that  I  scare  Miss  Carew  so  horribly  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  returns,  in  the  same  tone.  "  I 
should  not  have  given  Miss  Carew  credit  for  being  shy.  Evi- 
dently Captain  Montagu  does  not  inspire  her  •with  similar  ter- 
ror." 

"  You're  such  a  great  hulking  fellow,  you  know,  Jack,"  laughs 
Captain  Montagu,  putting  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder; 
"and  you  look  so  frightfully  fierce;  and  then,  with  your  reputa- 
tion as  a  lion-slayer  and  your  sojourn  in  wild  parts,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  Miss  Carew  thinks  you  eat  human  flesh,  and  is  rather 
in  teiTor  of  her  life  when  you  come  too  near." 

"  Of  the  two,  I  don't  suppose  I'm  as  dangerous  to  the  young 
lady  as  you  are,"  replies  my  lord.  "  Come,  Miss  Carew,  won't 
you  give  us  another  of  those  sweet  songs  you  were  favoring  this 
lucky  fellow  with  just  now  ?" 

"Do,"  says  Lady  Gwyn,  imperiously.  "Sing  '  Auld  Robin 
Gray.'" 

But  my  voice  feels  choked :  I  could  not  sing  now  to  please  any- 
one;  so  I  rise  and  walk  away  from  the  piano,  saying,  "  I  am 
afraid  I  have  no  voice  left." 

"What  a  charming,  good-natured  girl!"  says  Lady  Gwyn, 
sottovoce,  to  her  companion,  but  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear; 
and,  vexed  and  indignant,  I  leave  the  boudoir  to  seek  my  own 
room.  There  is  always  a  reverse  to  every  picture.  Still,  I  have 
pleased  him.  and  that  is  fifty  thousand  times  more  to  me  than 
the  displeasure  of  all  the  lords  and  ladies  in  creation. 

During  the  last  few  days  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  Claire 
Fane,  and  every  day  I  like  her  better.  She  is  so  thoroughly  kind 
and  good,  so  pleasant  to  every  one,  and  somehow  seems  to  have 
a  way  of  drawing  together  the  most  uncongenial  materials  and 
of  making  the  best  of  them.  Lord  Rexborough  seems  less  loud 
and  coarse  in  her  society,  Lady  Gwyneth  less  fast,  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ingdon less  ill-tempered,  Hector  Montagu  less  stiff  and  formal. 

I  have  an  idea — it  may  be  groundless — but  I  fancy  she  lias  a 
great  regard  for  Mr.  Montagu;  a  faint  blush  comes  to  her  kind, 
pretty  face  when  he  addresses  her  sometimes,  she  is  a  little  em- 
barrassed now  and  then  in  his  presence,  and  she  never  finds  fault 
with  what  he  says,  even  when  he  is  most  cynical  and  unchari- 
table. She  rather  apologizes  to  him  for  what  he  condemns  than 
blames  him,  as  I  think  she  might  do,  for  his  fault-finding.  But 
is  it  possible  that  she  can  care  for  him  ?  Indeed  I  cannot  undei'- 
stand  his  attracting  any  one — far  less  so  sweet  and  amiable  a 
creature  as  Claire.  I  hope  I  shall  see  more  of  her  when  I  leave 
here.  I  love  her  already;  and  I  know  papa  would,  too,  if  he 
could  only  see  her;  and  I  think  he  and  Colonel  Fane  would  get 
on  famously. 

The  last  day  of  our  stay  has  come;  to-morrow  we  are  going 
home.  I  long  to  see  them  all  again,  but,  oh,  I  wish  these  few 
little  golden  hours  that  are  left  would  not  speed  on  so  swiftly. 
On  this  last  evening,  Captain  Montagu  takes  me  in  to  dinner  for 
the  first  time.  It  is  only  seven  nights  removed  from  the  dinner 
that  I  found  so  grievously  long,  but  to-night  I  am  inclined  to 


74  DIANA    CAREW. 

quarrel  with  the  great  gold  hands  that  run  so  quickly  round  the 
clock,  and  the  pendulum  that  swings  to  and  fro  with  such  ill- 
natured  haste.  I  feel  in  boundless  spirits;  I  know  that  iny  lips 
are  curved  in  smiles,  that  my  eyes  are  eager;  I  read  it  in  the 
half -regretful,  half-amused  expression  on  Colonel  Fane's  face,  in 
the  angry  looks  of  Mr.  Montagu,  in  the  scorn  of  Mrs.  Hunting- 
don's handsome,  discontented  face,  and  the  kind  smile  on 
Claire's.  Our  stream  of  talk  ripples  on ;  it  is  neither  wise  nor 
witty,  but  sweeter  to  me  than  any  pearls  of  eloquence  that  could 
flow  from  the  lips  of  any  other  man.  The  words  that  make 
such  music  in  my  ears  are  commonplace  enough,  and,  were 
they  uttered  by  another  voice,  would  hold  none  of  their  present 
charm. 

"  I  am  so  awfully  sorry  you  are  going  to-morrow,"  says  the 
mouth  and  eyes  I  find  so  handsome.  "I  can't  forgive  myself 
for  having  wasted  so  many  hours  when  I  first  came.  But  then 

Em  know  "  (smiling)  "  I  never  expected  to  find  an  unmarried 
dy  so  charming.'' 

I  laugh  gleefully. 

"  What  shall  I  do  for  pretty  speeches  when  I  get  back  to  my  . 
rustic  life?"  I  ask.     "To-morrow  "  (with  a  shade  of  sadness)  "  I 
shall  have  dropped  out  of  fairy-land  and  be  a  little  Cinderella 
again." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  your  fairy  godmother,"  he  says.  "  I  should 
like  to  take  you  to  London  and  show  you  a  little  of  life;  I 
wouldn't  even  mind  turning  into  a  plumed  and  turbaned 
chaperon  for  one  season  to  attend  you  everywhere.  How  tre- 
mendously indulgent  and  long-suffering  I  should  be  and  how 
confoundedly  jealous  of  all  your  admirers!" 

I  laugh  outright. 

"  What!  if  you  were  a  plumed  and  turbaned  dowager!" 

"  Ah,  I  am  afraid  I  was  mixing  up  identities,"  he  laughs. 
"  Never  mind;  to-night,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  admirer  only;  and 
I  have  persuaded  Mrs.  Warrington  to  let  us  have  a  dance,  and 
you  "  (whispering)  "  are  going  to  waltz  with  me  twice,  if  Hector 
shoots  me  for  it  to-morrow." 

"  Never  mind  your  brother!"  I  exclaim,  impatiently. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  education  has  been  sadly  neglected  on  some 
important  points,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  with  an  amused 
smile.  "  You  don't  seem  to  understand  the  difference  between 
a, parti  and  a  detrimental.'" 

"  What  is  a  detrimental?"  I  ask,  curiously. 

"  A  man  who  cannot  marry  you  himself,  and  who  keeps  other 
men  off.  I  am  a  detrimental. 

My  cheeks  are  aflame  in  an  instant.  Fortunately,  Mrs.  War- 
rington is  just  rising  to  go.  Oh,  I  wish  he  had  not  said  that! 
Surely  he  does  not  think  for  one  moment  that  I  am  so  conceited 
and  silly  as  to  need  a  caution  from  him  that  he  is  only  beguiling 
an  idle  hour  in  my  society.  Why  did  he  poison  the  cup  that 
•was  so  sweet  a  moment  ago,  by  giving  me  foretaste  of  the 
dregs  ? 

We  are  in  the  hall,  and  Claire  passes  her  arm  through  mine. 

"  I  am  glad  your  last  evening  is  such  a  pleasant  one!"  she 


DIAXA    CAREW,  75 

says,  kindly;  and  I  answer,  "  Yes,  it  is,  very — thanks;"  but  my 
tone  is  not  so  hearty  as  it  would  have  been  a  minute  since. 

'•  Rochester  is  going  to  drive  me  over  to  see  you  soon,"  she 
says.  "  And  I  hope  we  are  going  to  be  real  neighbors,  and  to 
see  a  great  deal  of  each  other. " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  so  glad!''  I  exclaim,  heartily;  "  we  are  so  very 
dull  and  quiet  at  home,  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  feel  it  more  now 
that  I  have  had  all  this  gayety.  It  will  be  delightful  having 
something  to  look  forward  to.  Only,"  I  continue,  reddening  a 
little,  yet  feeling  constrained  to  tell  her,  "  we  live  in  a  very 
small,  quiet  way,  you  know,  because " 

••  My  dear,"  she~says,  interrupting  me,  and  giving  my  hand  a 
kind  little  squeeze,  "  I  am  coming  to  see  you,  and  the  dogs  and 
the  kittens,  and  all  your  other  pets." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
DIANA'S   STORY. 

MY  last  evening  is  a  triumphant  one.  Every  one  is  kind; 
every  one  except  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs,  Huntingdon  tell  me 
they  are  sorry  I  am  going;  but  I  hear  Lady  Gwyn,  to  whom 
Curly  i.s  paying  devoted  attention,  deploring  his  leaving  War- 
rington.  and  making  him  promise  (which  he  does  eagerly)  to  go 
and  stay  with  her  at  the  Castle.  Our  kind  host  and  hostess  press 
us  to  remain,  but  I  feel,  and  I  think  Curly  does,  that  papa  will 
be  expecting  us,  and  might  be  disappointed. 

Half  niy  pleasure  is  over.  I  have  had  one  delicious  waltz, 
and  forgotten  all  about  the  little  speech  that  vexed  me.  I 
have  danced  with  kind  Colonel  Fane,  who  has  been  kinder 
than  ever,  and  with  Mr.  Montagu,  who  has  struggled  very  hard 
to  keep  down  his  displeasure  and  to  be  genial,  and  with  nearly 
every  one  but  Lord  Rexborough.  For  one  moment  I  am  alone, 
and  he  takes  the  opportunity  to  come  and  stretch  his  huge  bulk 
on  the  sofa  beside  me. 

"  Won't  you  make  it  up?"  he  says,  putting  his  face  close  to 
mine,  with  his  most  satyrish  look.  "  This  is  your  last  chance, 
you  know." 

"  I  do  not  know  anything  to  make  up,"  I  reply,  stiffly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  j-ou  do,"*he  retorts.  "  You  were  deuced  angry  be- 
cause I  warned  you  about  Master  Charlie.  Y'ou'd  much  better 
have  spent  your  pleasant  looks  and  smiles  on  the  other  brother, 
or  on  me,  for  the  matter  of  that "  (with  a  laugh).  "  I've  sworn 
not  to  marry;  but  I  don't  at  all  know,  if  you  were  to  look  at 
me  like  you  do  at  Charlie,  that  I  shouldn't  be  capable  of  break- 
ing my  vow.  Here  he  comes — confound  the  fellow!  always  in 
my  way.  I  say,  Charlie,  just  you  leave  us  together  for  a  niin- 
ute,  will  you  ? — we're  making  our  peace." 

But  Captain  Montagu  reads  the  entreaty  in  my  face  too  well 
to  comply. 

"  My  time  is  so  short,  I  am  not  going  to  give  up  a  minute  of 
it,"  he  says,  laughing.  "  Why  haven't  you  done  it  before?  It's 
too  late,  now.  L 'occasion  pe.rdu  ne  rewent  janiais." 


76  DIANA    CAREW. 

"What  a  selfish  dog  you  are!  Why  don't  you  stick  to  the 
mariees  and  leave  the  ingenues  alone  ?" 

"  I  hear  music.  Come,  Miss  Carevv."  And  in  another  minute 
we  are  floating  down  the  ballroom.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
waltz.  It  is  over,  and  he  leads  me  away  into  the  conservatory, 
and  seats  me  on  the  couch  from  which  I  once  fled  in  such  hot 
haste  from  Lord  Rexborough. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to-morrow?"  he  says,  regretfully,  turn- 
ing his  blue  eyes  upon  me. 

"  Really,"  I  say,  regretfully  too. 

"  So  am  I,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  he  continues,  "  and  we  are 
both  going  home.  Your  father  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  Well,  I 
can't  flatter  myself  that  the  sight  of  me  will  awaken  much  joy 
in  the  paternal  breast.  I'm  the  prodigal  who  has  returned  once 
too  often.  They've  given  up  killing  the  fatted  calf  for  me — 
which,  on  the  whole,"  he  adds,  laughing,  "  I  don't  regret,  for  I 
hate  veal." 

' '  And  shall  you  be  long  at  home  ?"  I  ask,  with  a  vague  sense 
that  it  will  be  pleasant  to  think  he  is  still  in  the  same  county. 

"  Only  for  a  day  or  two:  and  then  I  return  to  those  arduous 
duties  about  which  I  once  told  you.  But  I  shall  be  down  again 
before  long.  How  should  you  greet  me  if  I  walked  suddenly  in 
upon  you  one  day  ?" 

My  heart  beats  faster,  my  eyes  glisten,  but  I  say  nothing,  for  I 
remember  our  homely  manners  of  life,  and  think  how  uncon- 
genial it  would  seem  to  this  fine  gentleman. 

"  You  do  not  wish  me  to  come  ?"  he  says,  softly. 

"  You  would  not  care  to,"  I  answer.  "  And  in  a  week — in  less, 
I  dare  say— you  will  have  forgotten  you  ever  met  such  a  humble 
personage  as  I." 

"  No,  I  shall  not,"  he  whispers,  taking  my  hand,  and  holding 
it  so  gently  that  I  am  fain  to  leave  it  there.  "  I  shall  never  for- 
get you." 

It  seems  like  a  dream.  I  half  close  my  eyes  with  a  dread  of 
awaking  from  so  much  happiness. 

' '  Darling  !"  he  whispers,  and  his  lips  touch  mine.  I  start 
away,  and  stand  angrily  against  the  trellis-work,  the  spell  is 
broken. 

"How  could  you?"  I  say,  reproachfully,  feeling  dreadfully 
hurt  and  ashamed. 

'•  Don't  be  angry!"  he  entreats.  "  I  could  not  help  it;  I  ana 
awfully  sorry — no,  that  is  not  true,"  he  says,  with  a  little  smile, 
"  but  I  will  not  offend  again." 

So  we  go  back  to  the  dancing- room,  where  every  one  is  saying 

food-night,  and  I  go  up-stairs  with  light  feet  but  a  heavy  heart, 
am  going  away  to-morrow — to-day,  even;  in  fifteen  hours  I 
shall  have  turned  my  back  on  all  these  new-found  delights,  and 
nine  of  those  must  be  given  to  dull  sleep,  or  duller  waking.  A 
tinge  of  bitterness  flavors  the  cup  that  would  otherwise  be  so 
sweet.  Does  he  think  lightly  of  me,  and  have  I  given  him 
cause  ?  Is  it  not  some  want  of  maidenly  modesty  that  even  now 
sends  a  thrill  of  joy  to  my  heart  at  the  remembrance  of  the  touch 
of  his  lips  ?  Red  shame  dyes  my  face,  my  neck,  glows  even  to 


DIAXA    CAREW.  77 

my  finger-tips.  Oh,  if  that  one  sweet  moment  should  have  lost 
me  his  esteem ! 

The  next  morning  is  wet.  No  one  goes  out;  and  I  am  asked  to 
sing.  Captain  Montagu  has  not  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  me  this  morning  even  had  he  wished  it.  I  do  not  know  if  he 
does.  His  brother  has  scarcely  left  me  for  a  moment,  and  he — 
he  has  been  talking  to  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  who  for  once  has  come 
down  to  breakfast.  I  feel  the  keenest  pangs  of  jealousy.  I  try 
hard  not  to  let  my  eyes  glance  in  their  direction,  but  in  spite 
of  me  they  will.  His  smile,  which  seems  so  unutterably  sweet 
when  it  falls  on  me- -I  hate  it  now  it  is  bent  on  another  woman. 
What  can  he  be  saying  to  her? — her  dark  brows  are  unbent  and 
wide  with  smiles;  she  looks  up  in  his  face  with  that  expression 
which  made  me  wonder  once  how  her  husband  could  bear  it. 

Involuntarily  I  look  round  for  him.  I  wish  he  would  see  and 
resent  it,  but  he  is  there  in  full  sight  of  her,  discoursing  mcst 
cheerfully  to  Lady  Gwyneth.  I  feel  a  contempt  for  him  in  my 
secret  heart.  But  I  am  going  to  sing  now;  it  is  my  one  weapon 
against  all  hers — against  her  handsome  face,  her  exquisite  ap- 
parel, her  jewels,  and  those  other  charms  unknown  to  me  which 
seem  to  harass  the  souls  of  men.  I  am  not  nervous  now;  I  throw 
all  my  heart — that  foolish  heart  which  will  have  no  more  use 
after  to-day — into  my  voice.  She  talks  on  loudly.  He  makes  a 
little  sign  of  hush,  but  her  eyes  flash  angrily,  and  she  talks  louder 
still.  Then,  oh,  triumph!  he  moves  softly  away  and  ensconces 
himself  in  a  low  arm-chair  with  closed  eyes  and  listens.  And  I 
sing  on  to  him — yes,  to  him,  though  it  may  be  his  brother  who 
thanks  and  praises  me,  or  Colonel  Fane,  or  Sir  George,  or  Mr. 
Warrington.  And  when  I  have  sung  my  last  and  my  best,  he 
uncloses  those  long-fringed  lids  that  I  have  seen  all  the  time, 
though  I  seemed  not  to  look  and  comes  toward  me. 

"  Miss  Carew,"  he  says,  in  the  pleasant,  languid  tone  which  he 
particularly  affects,  and  which  I  believe  provokes  men  (that  is, 
the  men  who  are  jealous  of  him)  and  pleases  women,  "  what  an 
inestimable  treasure  you  will  be  to  some  one!  Only  I  hope  you 
won't  be  like  most  women,  and  give  up  singing  when  you 
marry." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  may  do,"  I  answer,  "  when  anything  so 
improbable  occurs." 

"  Improbable!"  echoes  his  brother  on  the  other  side.  "  Pray, 
Miss  Carew,  do  you  contemplate  taking  the  veil  ?'' 

"  I  might  as  well,"  I  answer,  laughing;  "  when  I  am  at  home, 
my  life  is  something  like  a  nun's." 

•  •  We'll  come  over  and  invade  the  sanctuary,  won't  we,  Hector  ?'' 
but  the  latter  only  frowns.  "  I  believe  we  are  only  about  fifteen 
miles  from  you,"  pursues  Captain  Montagu,  "  and  tradition  says 
that  your  family  and  ours  were  bosom  friends  once." 

"  Ah,"  I  reply,  coloring,  "  but  it  was  different  then.  We '' 

but  here  I  stop. 

"  As  soon  as  I  get  to  London,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  adroitly 
changing  the  conversation,  "  I  am  going  to  send  you  some 
lovely  songs  by  Gounod  and  Sullivan,  and  then  if  ever  I  do  have 
the  bliss  of  meeting  you  again,  and  "  (laughing)  "  you  have  not 


78  DIANA    CAREW. 

given  up  your  music,  I  hope  I  shall  have  the  extreme  gratifica- 
tion of  hearing  you  sing  them." 

Our  visit  is  over;  we  have  gone  through  all  the  cordial  hand* 
shakings,  and  kind  regrets,  and  hopes  for  future  meetings.  I 
have  wished  all  good-bye  but  one.  Where  is  he  ?  My  heart 
sinks  with  bitter  disappointment;  we  are  on  the  eve  of  starting, 
when  a  voice  cries  "Stop!"  and  Captain  Montagu  appears  be^ 
side  me  at  the  window  with  a  lovely  bouquet. 

"  I  asked  permission  first,  and  then  I  robbed  the  green- 
houses," he  says,  putting  it  in  my  hand;  "  it  is  a  little  foreign 
custom  which  I  always  took  to,  sending  off  your  friends  with  a 
floral  souvenir.  Good-bye,  Curly;  I  shall  see  lots  of  you  this 
summer  at  Windsor.  Adieu,  belle  deesse — au  revoir,  I  hope." 
And  he  presses  my  hand  softly,  takes  off  his  hat,  and  we  are 
rolling  down  the  avenue. 

"  Oh,  DiT'says  Curly,  regretfully,  "  what  an  awfully  jolly  time 
we  have  hadl  Aren't  you  dreadfully  sorry  it  is  all  over  ?" 

But  just  at  the  moment  I  am  triumphantly  happy;  this  little 
episode  of  the  flowers  has  turned  my  mourning  into  joy. 

"  It  has  been  delightful,"  I  answer;  "  but  we  are  going  to  see 
papa;  how  glad  he  will  be  to  see  us!  and  Gay— I  dare  say  what 
a  state  of  fuss  and  expectation  she  is  in  at  this  very  moment. 
It  will  be  very  nice  telling  them  all  about  it." 

"' Yes,"  Curly  assents,  but  he  is  looking  out  of  the  window 
rather  blankly.  Presently  he  turns  his  face  to  me  again;  it  has 
lost  its  usual  joyons  expression,  and  wears  a  shade  of  mortifica- 
tion. 

"Isn't  it  an  awful  bore  to  be  poor,  Di?"  he  says,  despond- 
ingly. 

'  Perhaps  it  is,  dear  boy,"  I  assent,  consolingly.  "  But  you 
know  "  (with  secret  conviction)  "  it  does  not  strike  me  that  all 
these  people  we  have  just  left  are  so  particularly  happy,  and  yet 
I  suppose  they  have  everything  that  money  can  command.  I 
don't  believe  they  enjoyed  themselves  half  so  much  as  we  did. 
Captain  Montagu  "  (turning  a  little  aside)  "  told  me  he  was  dread- 
fully bored  nearly  always!" 

"  Oh,  that  was  his  humbug!  all  those  fellows  talk  in  that  way. 
But  what  I  feel  is,  you  know,  it's  awfully  nice  getting  asked 
out,  and  every  one  being  so  kind  and  good-natured,  but — but 
Di"  (coloring  a  little),  "one  feels  so  shabby  at  not  being  able  to 
return  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dear,"  I  respond;  "  but"  (putting  my  arm  round 
his  neck)  "  I  don't  think  you  need  feel  like  that.  Why,  if  we 
were  ever  so  rich,  what  could  we  give  them  more  than  they  are 
used  to  have  every  day  of  their  lives?  But  you  amuse  them  and 
make  them  laugh,  and  they  like  to  see  your  bright,  cheery  face; 
so  I  consider  you  make  them  an  ample  return,  and  I  am  sure 
they  are  quite  satisfied  with  that,  and  would  be  sorry,  perhaps, 
if  you  could  make  them  any  other." 

"  I  think  our  visit  was  a  success.  We  both  got  on  capitally, 
didn't  we?"  he  remarks,  with  returning  complacency.  "  Really, 
Di,  you  looked  uncommon  well — you  did,  now,  indeed.  All  the 


DIANA    CAEEW.  79 

fellows  liked  you.  I  wish  you  hadn't  snubbed  Rexborough  so; 
he's  a  thundering  good  fellow,  really." 

"la  he?"  I  respond,  dryly.  ''Well,  his  thunder  is  as 
terrible  to  me  as  Jove's  might  have  been  to  the  ancients;  but 
it  does  not  follow,  dear  boy,  that  we  are  always  to  like  the 
same  people;  indeed,  it  isn't  natural  we  should.  But  you  may 
be  sure  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  any  one  for  liking  you,"  I  add, 
putting  my  hand  on  his  crisp  gold  curls  in  quite  a  maternal 
way.  I  do  feel  very  motherly  toward  him,  though  there 
is  only  two  years'  difference  between  us.  We  are  drawing  near 
home. 

"  Curly,"  I  say,  with  some  diffidence — "  don't  mind  my  saying 
it;  of  course  I  know  you  won't — but,  dear,  I  should  not  like  you 
to  hint  anything  before  papa  about  our  not  being  able  to  make 
people  any  return." 

"  Why,  of  course  not,  Di.  As  if  I  should!  You  need  not  be 
afraid  of  my  saying  anything  to  hurt  the  dear  old  dad.  There 
he  is.  Hurrah!"  (waving  his  hat  frantically  out  of  the  win- 
dow). 

Yes,  there  he  stands,  waiting  for  us  on  the  doorstep,  looking 
so  glad;  and  there  behind  him,  at  a  respectful  distance,  are 
fluttering  cap-ribbons,  which  I  know  adorn  the  person  of  none 
other  than  Mrs.  Susannah  Gay.  A  minute  later,  and  I  have  flung 
myself  round  papa's  neck  like  a  young  whirlwind,  with  an  odd 
swelling  in  my  throat  and  foolish,  but  happy  tears  brimming  in 
my  eyes.  What  a  goose  I  must  be!  And  then  I  turn  to  Gay, 
radiant  and  red  from  Curly's  embrace.  The  pug  is  nearly  tear- 
ing me  to  pieces  with  excitement,  cook,  in  the  distance,  bobs 
respectful  courtesies,  the  girl  stands  with  wide  grins  of  welcome, 
holding  Othello  and  Desdemona  under  each  arm.  It  is  a  homely 
home-coming,  but  I  think  it  would  have  given  us  less  pleasure 
to  walk  through  the  old  hall  if  it  had  been  lined  with  obsequious 
retainers.  There  is  such  a  fire  in  the  morning-room,  such  a  cake, 
such  hot  buttered  toast,  and  "  the  kettle  came  to  the  bile  just  as 
the  carriage  turned  into  the  avenue,"  says  Gay.  And  while  she 
busies  herself  with  the  teapot,  Curly  and  I  breathlessly  recite  our 
tales  of  splendor  and  delight,  and  papa  beams  with  smiles,  and 
looks  happier,  I  think,  than  I  have  ever  seen  him. 

"  And  we  shall  be  losing  Di  soon,  dad!''  rattles  Curly;  "  I  can 
tell  you  she's  taken  all  the  fellows  by  storm,  and  there'll  be 
duels,  and  rumors  of  duels,  and  somebody  carrying  her  off  one 
of  these  fine  days  under  our  very  noses." 

"  Curly,  you  goose,  hold  your  tongue!"  I  cry.  "  Ah.  papa,  he 
is  afraid  of  my  having  the  first  word.  You  have  no  idea  what  a 
young  Admirable  Crichton  this  boy  is,  and  what  a  fuss  all  the 
lovely  ladies  make  about  him!" 

"At  any  rate,"  says  our  father,  smiling,  "you  both  seem  to 
have  enjoyed  your  visit." 

Gay,  having  poured  out  the  tea,  modestly  makes  a  show  of  re- 
tiring, but  is  not  allowed.  She  is  one  of  the  family,  and  we 
have  no  secrets  from  her.  But  she  is  always  very  shy  and  re- 
spectful in  papa's  presence,  and  only  looks  the  "  Law's!  Well  I 
never's!  Dear  bless  my  heart's!"  with  which  she  notes  and  com- 


80  DIANA    CAREW. 

mentates  her  stories  in  private.  We  spend  a  delightful  evening 
in  the  recital  of  our  fine  doings,  and  somehow  I  forget  to  make 
any  disparaging  contrasts  between  our  own  shabbiness  and  the 
luxury  from  which  we  have  just  come.  Ah!  there  is  something 
about  home,  when  it  is  a  happy  one,  with  which  the  stateliest 
palace  in  the  world  cannot  compete.  '••• 

But  next  morning,  when  all  our  tales  are  told,  when  we  have 
visited  our  pets  and  all  our  usual  haunts,  when  papa  and  Curly 
have  gone  off  with  their  guns,  I  am  conscious  of  a  certain  sensa- 
tion of  blankness  and  void  that  I  have  never  known  before;  it  is 
the  reaction,  I  suppose.  A  sort  of  despair  creeps  into  my  heart 
as  I  stand  looking  at  the  flowers  he  gave  me.  This  time  yester- 
day I  was  singing  to  him,  and  now  perhaps  I  shall  never  see  him 
again.  I  dare  say  he  has  already  forgotten  me. 

The  flowers  grow  blurred  and  dim;  their  delicate  hues  are 
merged  mistily  in  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then  two  great 
tears  roll  down  my  cheeks.  Alas!  I  have  eaten  of  the  fruit  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge.  When  I  knew  of  nothing  different,  I  was 
blithe  and  happy  in  my  home.  "  Oh,  why,  why  should  I  have 
had  this  glimpse  of  paradise,''  I  cry,  passionately,  to  myself,  "  if 
it  is  only  to  make  me  discontented  with  what  sufficed  me  well 
enough  before?"  For,  looking  back,  it  all  seems  to  me  like 
paradise. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

NOT      TOLD      BY      DIANA. 

ALFORD  COURT  is  one  of  the  oldest  places  in  England.  It  has 
not  one  but  many  histories,  as  even  the  most  unpretentious, 
unromantic  house  is  bound  to  have  after  standing  a  certain 
number  of  centuries.  It  has  its  venerable  oaks,  hundreds  of 
years  old,  with  sides  riven  and  branches  scathed  by  many  a  fierce 
storm;  it  has  its  big  lake,  full  of  carp,  some  of  them  as  old,  it  is 
said,  as  the  oaks;  it  has  its  grand  old  gateway,  with  the  ball- 
room over,  in  which  fair  young  forms  once  tripped  gayly  that 
are  now  but  as  few  grains  of  dust.  Inside  the  house  are  many 
silver  and  brass-bound  oaken  presses  and  cabinets;  the  carved 
mantel-pieces  ascend  to  the  ceilings,'^the  brass  dogs  still  stand, 
brightly  burnished,  on  the  hearths. .  There  is  a  great  store  of 
china;  huge  bowls  and  jars  filled  with  pot-pourri  as  sweet  now 
as  when  it  was  confectioned  by  the  dainty  fingers  of  some  long- 
since  dead  chatelaine.  There  are  long,  oaken,  picture-hung 
corridors  with  mullioned  windows  looking  out  over  a  sea  of 
lawn,  broken  here  and  there  by  some  grand  old  cedar.  It  is  easy 
to  see  that  emerald  velvet  turf  has  never  been  ruffled  by  croquet 
hoops,  only  one  donkey  is  ever  allowed  there,  as  the  host  says 
with  grim  facetiousness,  and  that  is  the  leather-booted  one 
which  draws  the  mowing  machine.  Sir  Hector  Montagu,  the 
master  of  Alford  Court  and  of  many  adjacent  demesnes,  has  a 
rooted  aversion  for  croquet — the  cause  of  more  mesalliances,  he 
avers,  than  any  pastime  ever  invented. 

"  A  parcel  of  silly  women,''  quoth  he,  "  glad  of  any  excuse  for 
idling  away  their  time  and  making  eyes  at  somebody— if  it's  only 


DIANA    CAREW.  81 

the  poor  little  whipper-snapper  curate,  and  ready  to  pull  caps 
even  over  him;  then  one  fine  day  your  daughter  (thank  God,  my 
lady,  you  never  blessed  me  with  one),  your  daughter  comes  to 
you  in  hysterics  and  informs  you  she  never  can  love  anybody 
but  the  Reverend  Jones,  whose  income  is  probably  something 
under  a  hundred  a  year."  So  Sir  Hector,  though  he  has  no 
daughter,  still  declines  to  encourage  folly  in  those  of  other  men; 
and,  although  no  young  lady  ever  comes  to  the  place  without  ex- 
claiming "What  a  heavenly  lawn  for  croquet!"  (this  being  in  the 
days  before  it  was  superseded  by  lawn  tennis  and  Badminton), 
Sir  Hector's  fiat  having  once  gone  forth  was  unalterable  as  the 
laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 

The  master  of  Alford  Court  was  an  autocrat;  de  tout  ce  qiCil  y 
a  de  plus  autocrate — not  even  the  emperor  of  all  the  Russias 
could  be  more  absolute  than  Sir  Hector  in  his  own  domain.  If 
he  had  been  a  Turkish  pasha  in  the  good  old  times,  how  he  would 
have  had  his  wretched  subjects  bowstrung  and  bastinadoed! 
if  a  Chinese  potentate,  what  rows  of  grinning  heads  would 
have  chronicled  his  attacks  of  liver!  if  a  West  Indian  planter, 
what  scourgings  would  have  testified  to  the  disagreeing  of  last 
night's  banquet!  Living  in  the  highly  civilized  nineteenth  cent- 
ury, when  moral  scourging  and  the  laceration  of  our  friends' 
hearts  and  our  foes'  feelings  are  the  only  cruelties  tolerated  in  po- 
lite society,  and  being  also  one  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  and 
polished  gentlemen  of  his  time  (in  company),  Sir  Hector  had 
still  a  victim  whom  he  was  wont  habitually  to  bowstring  and 
bastinado,  to  decapitate  and  to  whip — a  victim  perpetually  at 
hand,  too,  a  great  convenience,  and  who  was — need  I  say  it? — 
his  wife.  Poor  lady!  what  a  time  she  had  with  her  remorseless 
old  tyrant! 

It  \YSS  not  alone  her  own  shortcomings  she  suffered  for,  but  for  " 
those  of  the  household  and  neighborhood.  Sons,  butler,  men-serv- 
ants and  maid-servants,  grooms  and  gardeners,  tenants  and  la- 
borers, on  the  slim  shoulders  of  poor  Lady  Montagu  fell  all  the 
weight  of  their  frequent  misdoings.  Was  the  soup  too  hot  or  too 
cold,  a  sarcastic  compliment  to  my  lady  on  her  cook  and  her  own 
housewifely  proclivities  testified  to  his  displeasure;  if  Charlie  got 
into  debt,  his  mother,  of  course,  was  alone  responsible:  so  from 
the  most  trivial  to  the  greatest  incident  that  vexed  him,  my  lady 
was  the  fetish  he  banged  and  battered  incessantly.  Sir  Hector 
affected  the  old  school;  his  creed  forbade  him  to  bluster  or  bully: 
sarcasm  was  the  weapon  on  which  he  transfixed  the  luckless 
ones  who  came  under  his  sovereign  displeasure,  and,  as  a  natural 
consequence,  was  the  one  he  was  himself  totally  unable  to  bear. 
Only  one  member  of  the  household  could  and  dared  meet  the 
autocrat  upon  his  own  ground — his  heir;  and  he  rarely,  but  in 
defense  of  his  mother  or  some  other  oppressed  mortal.  Before 
the  world,  Sir  Hector  had  a  grand,  stately  demeanor:  it  im- 
pressed strangers  immensely.  Toward  women  especially,  he 
comported  himself  with  a  delightful  mixture  of  old-fashioned 
courtesy  and  bland  protection;  on  first  acquaintance  they  always 
pronounced  him  "  a  charming  old  man,"  though  their  enthu- 


$2  DIANA    CAREW. 

siasm  generally  abated  on  closer  acquaintance.  "  Finish  the 
prologue  and  draw  up  the  curtain!"  says  the  reader. 

Tinkle  goes  the  bell,  up  rolls  the  curtain  and  discloses — Sir 
Hector  and  Lady  Montagu  with  their  two  sons  seated  at  dinner, 
in  a  magnificent  banqueting-hall,  each  with  a  gorgeous  liveried 
servant  behind  his  chair,  This  is  one  of  Sir  Hector's  whims, 
and  one  that  is  a  peculiar  abomination  to  his  sons.  Sir  Hector 
will  dine  in  state — company  or  no  company.  There  is  a  charm- 
ing, cozy  little  dining-room  close  by,  perfection  for  a  small 
party,  where  the  other  three  members  of  the  family  would  fain 
dine,  waited  on  by  one  servant,  or  two  at  the  most.  Sir  Hector 
wills  it  otherwise;  he  likes  to  dine  in  the  vast  Irall — the  only 
concession  to  whose  vastness  is  a  great  screen  placed  half-way 
across;  and  he  likes  to  eat  his  dinner  with  ten  watchful  eyes  obse- 
quiously observant  of  every  morsel  that  he  transfers  from  his 
plate  to  his  mouth.  For  if  he  and  my  lady  are  dining  tete-a-tete 
he  will  have  the  butler  and  four  footmen  in  the  room,  though 
they  do  nothing  but  stand  at  attention  in  front  of  or  at  ease  be- 
hind him  all  through  dinner. 

"  Gad!"  says  poor  Charlie  to  his  mother,  "  I  don't  know  how 
you  stand  this  sort  of  thing  night  after  night,  my  poor  dear 
mater.  Don't  you  long  and  pray  for  the  old  man's  death  'f 

"  Oh!  Charlie,  dear,  pray  hush!"  cries  his  mother,  in  a  terri- 
fied whisper,  looking  over  her  shoulder.  '•  Pray,  pray  don't  say 
such  dreadful  things." 

"Why,  mother,"  laughs  her  scapegrace  son,  "you  look  as 
terrified  as  if  you  had  the  real  old  gentleman  behind  you.  Don't 
be  alarmed:  his  prototype  is  ten  miles  off  at  this  moment,  and 
there  is  no  fear  of  that  steady-going  old  cob  of  his  doing  any- 
thing indiscreet— worse  luck!  But  to  return  to  our  mutton, 
served  up  on  the  family  plate  with  that  old  raven  and  his  four 
paroquets  staring  down  our  throats  as  if  they  begrudged  us 
every  morsel.  Gad!  it  takes  every  bit  of  my  appetite  away,  and 
makes  me  so  confoundedly  nervous  I  spill  something  down  the 
front  of  my  shirt  nearly  every  night.  And  all  this  swagger  for 
a  little  trumpery  baronet." 

"Charlie!  Charlie!"  interposes  his  mother,  quite  shocked. 

"  Have  as  much  state  as  you  like  when  you  are  entertaining — 
twenty  servants,  thirty,  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow ;  but,  when 
we're  alone,  for  Heaven's  sake  let's  be  comfortable.  Why,  when 
I  was  staying  with  Simplicitas,  we  had  the  prince  there,  and 
nothing  could  have  been  more  regal  than  the  way  everything 
was  done;  and  the  night  they  all  left,  the  duke  and  duchess  and 
I  dined  in  a  little  nutshell  of  a  room,  with  two  maid-servants  to 
wait  upon  us.  I  haven't  told  the  governor  that  yet,  but  I  will 
to-night." 

"  Now,  my  dear  boy,  what  is  the  use  of  your  vexing  your  fa- 
ther?" pleads  Lady  Montagu.  "You  know  nothing  will  alter 
him." 

"  I  hate  the  very  sight  of  those  long-legged,  cringing  fools," 
pursues  Captain  Montagu,  disgustedly.  "  I've  done  my  best  to 
make  them  enlist.  I've  tried  to  inspire  them  with  a  desire  for 
martial  glory.  I've  dimly  hinted  at  the  becomingness  of  a  scar- 


DIANA    CAEEW.  83 

let  coat  and  its  attractions  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair.  I've  tried  to 
shame  them  out  of  their  present  ignoble  life;  but  not  a  bit  of  it! 
The  governor  caught  me  at  it  one  day. 

"  '  And  pray,  sir,'  he  remarked,  in  that  agreeable  tone  which 
he  has  made  peculiarly  his  own — ;  and  pray,  sir'  (mimicking  the 
baronet's  pompous,  sneering  voice),  '  what  the  devil  do  you  mean 
by  trying  to  corrupt  my  servants  ?' 

"  '  Surely,  sir,'  I  replied,  meekly,  '  you  don't  call  it  corruption 
to  wish  to  make  them  defenders  of  their  country.  We're  very 
badly  off  for  recruits.' 

"  '  Country  be  hanged,  sir!  and  pray  what  the  deuce  are  the 
old  county  families  to  do  for  footmen  ?  Make  them  soldiers,  in- 
deed! A  parcel  of  dissolute,  lazy,  good-for-nothing  fellows — 
that's  what  you  guardsmen  are!  I'll  trouble  you,  sir,  to  seek  re- 
cruits elsewhere,  and  not  to  tamper  with  my  household!' 

"  Poor  little  mother!"  says  Charlie,  resuming  his  own  lazy 
caressing  tones  and  looking  at  his  mother,  "  what  a  time  you 
must  have  had  of  it  all  these  years!  Tell  me"  (confidentially), 
"  what  on  earth  made  you  marry  the  governor?" 

Lady  Montagu  looks  back  in  her  son's  face  with  that  idolatrous 
expression  with  which  mothers  are  wont  to  regard  their  hand- 
some offspring.  "  I  don't  know,  my  dear;  we  have  always  got 
on  very  well  together.  It  is  only  your  father's  way,  and,  be- 
sides "  (smiling),  "if  I  had  not  married  him  you  would  not  be 
here  now.:' 

"And  that  would  have  been  a  great  loss,  little  mother, 
wouldn't  it?"  he  says,  kissing  her  hand.  "Thank  Heaven, 
Hector  inherited  all  the  governor's  amiable  qualities  and  left  none 
for  me.  'Pon  my  soul,  mother,  he'll  be  the  old  gentleman's  very 
duplicate;  and  the  next  Lady  Montagu,  unless  she  has  plenty  of 
spirit,  will  share  your  fate." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  see  I  have  survived  it,"  is  the  answer;  and 
the  pair  stroll  out  together  in  the  garden,  Lady  Montagu 
supremely  happy  as  she  leans  on  the  arm  of  her  handsome  son. 
After  all,  there  is  compensation  in  almost  everything. 

But  to  come  back  from  our  wandering.  It  is  the  day  of  the 
two  sons'  return  from  Warrington  Hall,  and  they  are  dining 
with  their  parents  in  the  usual  state.  Dinner  over,  the  conver- 
sation falls  on  their  visit,  and  the  party  staying  in  the  house. 

"Mr.  Carew's  son  and  daughter  were  there,"  says  Hector, 
after  having  enumerated  the  rest  of  the  company. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  remarks  Lady  Montagu,  "  that  those  children 
can  be  grown  up  ?  Why,  it  seems  only  the  other  day " 

"  Everything  seems  only  the  other  day  with  you,  my  lady," 
interrupts  Sir  Hector's  cold  snarl.  "  I  should  have  thought 
your  looking-glass  might  occasionally  remind  you  of  the  flight 
of  time." 

' '  The  boy  is  still  at  Eton,"  says  Hector,  "  and  Miss  Carew  is  just 
eighteen,  and  a  very  charming  girl,"  he  adds,  a  slight  flush 
deepening  his  bronzed  cheek.  "I  think,  mother,  it  would  be 
kind  of  you  to  call  upon  her." 

"Indeed  I  will,"  she  responds,  "if"  (looking  diffidently  at 
her  tyrant),  "  if  your  father " 


84  DIANA    CAREW. 

Sir  Hector  sips  his  port  and  pretends  not  to  hear. 

"  I  have  heard  that  our  family  and  the  Carews  were  on  the 
most  intimate  terms — before  their  misfortunes,"  pursues  Hector, 
in  a  tone  that  has  some  faint,  though  very  faint,  resemblance  to 
his  father's. 

"It  is  high  time  intimacy  should  cease  when  people  forget 
their  position  and  make  infernal  fools  of  themselves,"  pays  the 
baronet,  agreably.  "However,  it  was  Carew  who  dropped  his 
friends  in  this  case,  as  it  happens,  not  they  who  dropped  him." 

"  And  is  she  pretty  ?"  asks  my  lady,  appealing  to  her  younger 
son. 

"Yes,  she  is,"  he  replies,  meditatively,  "decidedly  pretty; 
quite  unformed,  of  course." 

"Fortunately,"  interposes  Hector,  with  emphasis. 

"  C'est  selon!"  retorts  Captain  Montagu;  (then,  mischievously) 
"  it's  quite  on  the  cards,  mother,  that  you  have  the  fair  Diana 
for  a  daughter-iii -law." 

"  What?"  cries  Sir  Hector,  whilst  my  lady  looks  from  one  to 
the  other  of  her  sons.  Hector  darts  an  angry  glance  at  his 
brother,  who,  nothing  daunted,  proceeds,  laughing.  "  He  is  of 
age:  ask  him;  let  him  speak  for  himself." 

"H'm,"  says  the  baronet,  "I  thought  you  were  speaking  for 
yourself.  A  man  without  a  shilling  but  his  debts  generally 
selects  a  penniless  bride.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  Hector  mak- 
ing an  ass  of  himself." 

There  is  a  slight  working  of  Hector's  features  he  remarks  very 
coldly: 

' '  It  is  taking  a  great  liberty  with  Miss  Carew's  name  to  couple 
it  with  any  man's  at  present.  At  the  same  time"  (looking 
steadily  at  his  father),  "  if  I  ever  do  marry,  the  last  thing  I  shall 
look  for  in  my  wife  will  be  a  fortune." 

"Do  you  already,  then,  fancy  yourself  in  my  shoes?"  sneer* 
Sir  Hector. 

"My  income  is  quite  sufficient  to  share  with  a  woman  who 
has  not  extravagant  tastes/'  retorts  Hector,  in  a  cold,  defiant 
tone. 

"  Oh,  in  that  case,  my  lady,"  says  the  baronet,  with  bland  sar- 
casm, "  pray  lose  no  time  in  calling  on  the  young  lady  and  in- 
troducing her  as  your  successor." 

Sir  Hector  has  the  best  of  it;  his  heir  loses  his  temper,  and,  for 
fear  of  showing  it,  beats  a  hasty  retreat. 

"Were  you  really  serious,  Charlie?''  asks  his  mother,  anx- 
iously. 

"Yes — no — I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  he  answers,  yawning; 
"  it's  such  a  confounded  bore  to  have  to  weigh  every  word.  I 
think  Mrs.  Warrington  was  trying  to  work  it." 

"  Very  good  of  her,  I'm  sure,"  says  Sir  Hector,  dryly. 

"  I  cannot  think  how  people  can  be  so  officious,"  exclaims  his 
wife,  with  more  show  of  resentment  than  is  habitual  to  her. 
"  It  is  not  kind  of  Mrs.  Warrington." 

"  My  dear  mother,  pray  don't  agitate  yourself.  Mrs.  Warrington 
did  nothing;  what  could  she  do? — what  could  any  one  do  with 
Hector  if  he  did  not  choose  ?  Besides,  the  Carews  are  as  good  as 


DIANA    CAREW.  85 

we  are,  and  she  is  quite  a  charming  girl;  but,  entre  nous,  what- 
ever Hector  may  feel  for  her,  I  do  not  fancy  she  reciprocates  in 
the  very  least.'' 

"  Indeed,  Charlie,''  says  his  mother,  bridling  a  little,  "  I  think 
Hector  is  not  at  all  likely  to  meet  with  a  rebuff  in  any  quarter 
where  he  offered  his  attentions." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  for  him  to  ask  her  on  the  chance  of  her  re- 
fusing," snarls  Sir  Hector;  and  there  the  conversation  drops. 

The  next  morning  Lady  Montagu  received  a  visit  from  her 
eldest  son  in  her  boudoir. 

"  Mother,"  he  commenced,  abruptly,  "  I  was  very  much  an- 
noyed at  what  Charlie  said  last  night  about  Miss  Carew,  but  all 
the  same  I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed  if  you  will  go  and  call  on 
her;  and,  mother  "  (taking  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room),  "  could 
you  not  ask  her  over  here  to  stay  ?" 

If  Charlie  is  her  favorite,  Lady  Montagu  has  a  very  sincere 
affection  for  her  elder  son;  so  she  replies,  looking  anxiously  at 
him: 

"Certainly,  my  dear;  I  will  do  anything  .you  wish  (if  your 
father  does  not  object).  But  have  you  really,  seriously,  any 
idea  of  Miss  Carew  T 

"  My  dear  mother  "  (impatiently),  "  why  want  to  jump  to  con- 
clusions? She  is  a  very  charming,  unaffected,  lady-like  givl, 
and  I  should  like  to  see  more  of  her.  Besides "  (lowering  his 
voice),  "  there  are  two  parties  to  a  contract,  and,  though  I 
might  be  ever  so  much  in  love  with  her,  it  does  not  follow  that 
she  should  care  for  me;  rather  the  other  way.  Mother"  (stop- 

fing  suddenly  in  his  walk  and  confronting  her),  "  I'm  afraid 
'm  not  a  very  taking  sort  of  fellow:  am  I?  I  frighten  people 
even  when  I  want  to  be  most  kind;  even  you,  poor  mother" 
(taking  her  hand),  "are  not  quite  at  ease  with  me.  There's 
Charlie,"  he  continues,  dropping  her  hand  gently,  and  resuming 
his  walk  up  and  down;  "  he  lias  only  to  smile  at  you  women  in 
his  sweet  languid  way  "  (with  rising  passion)  "  and  you  all  adore 
him  and  would  do  anything  for  him,  and  we,  we  miserable  dogs 
who  haven't  had  the  luck  to  be  born  with  pretty  faces  and  soft 
manners— we  who  would  lay  down  our  lives  for  you  and  sacri- 
fice anything  on  earth  to  make  you  happy — we  only  inspire  you 
with  fear  and  shrinking!  Poor  mother!"  (stopping  suddenly, 
his  voice  subsiding  from  the  harshness  of  violent  emotion  to  ex- 
treme tenderness,  as  though  he  were  talking  to  some  little  child); 
•'  why,  I  have  quite  scared  you.  You  didn't  think  I  was  such  a 
violent,  blustering  fellow,  did  you  ?  Come,  it's  over  now.  I 
don't  know  what  possessed  me.  Well,  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you, 
won't  you  ?  And  now  I  must  go  over  to  Willington  about  that 
stupid  business  of  Cartwright's.  Good-bye,  mother  dear!"  And 
he  goes, 

Lady  Montagu  sighs  as  the  door  closes;  she  has  a  vague  feel- 
insr  that  she  ought  to  understand  her  eldest  son  better — that 
there  is,  after  all,  something  behind  that  chill  surface  that  a 
mother's  heart  ought  to  read;  but  the  momentary  intelligence 
coon  slumbers  again.  It  leaves  one  strong  impression,  though, 


86  DIANA    CAREW. 

and  that  is,  that  Miss  Carew  i&  something  more  to  him  than  any 
other  daughter  of  Eve  has  been  before. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA. 

As  Hector  Montagu  drove  his  handsome  brown  mare  into 
Willington,  his  thoughts  ran  very  little  on  "  that  stupid  busi- 
ness of  Cartwright's."  He  could  not  help  wondering  to  himself 
at  the  emotion  into  which  he  had  been  betrayed  before  his 
mother,  and  the  remembrance  of  it  vexed  him.  But  after  the 
mare  had  trotted  two  or  three  miles  along  the  road  to  Willing- 
ton  that  memory  began  to  fade  from  his  mind,  and  another  to 
take  its  place.  The  picture  of  Diana  rose  before  him.  What  a 
witchery  she  was  beginning  to  exercise  over  him!  Diana,  with 
great  eyes,  a  soft  voice,  rippling  brown  hair,  and  red  lips,  was 
as  clear  in  his  mental  vision  as  though  she  stood  there  before 
him:  he  could  see  her  face  flashing  with  laughter  or  petulance, 
and  the  honest  love  shining  in  her  eyes  when  they  rested  even 
for  a  moment  on  her  brother.  She  was  the  incarnation  of  his 
idea  of  what  a  girl  should  be — pure,  modest,  bright,  affectionate, 
full  of  sweet  sympathy  and  kindness.  He  was  not  one  of  the 
men  who  "  went  in  for  married  women,"  whom  "girls  bored." 
Compare  her  with  Lady  Gwyneth  or  Mrs.  Huntingdon!  as  well 
put  side  by  side  an  angel  with  the  heroine  of  a  bad  French  novel! 
They  dare  to  sneer  at  her  and  call  her  forward  and  mock-modest! 
Involuntarily  Hector  gave  the  reins  such  a  grip  that  the  mare 
started  off  with  an  indignant  bound. 

"  Soho!  gently,  old  lady:  what's  the  matter?"  he  said,  sooth- 
ingly; and  as  she  settled  down  again,  his  thoughts  flew  back  to 
Diana.  She  ever  become  a  fashionable  woman!  She  marry  for 
money!  She  be  false  to  her  husband,  her  pure  mind  come  down 
to  find  immoral  play  a -piquant  and  impure  romances  stimulat- 
ing! "  Never!  never!"  he  muttered,  half  aloud,  in  his  energetic 
defense  of  her,  again  forgetting  the  brown  mare's  mettle.  De- 
cidedly there  must  be  some  very  potent  influence  at  work  to 
rouse  Hector  Montagu  after  this  fashion.  "  What  I  would  give 
to  make  that  girl  love  me!"  he  cried  to  himself,  passionately, 
"  If  I  could  but  win  her.  I  would  make  her  love  me!"  he  told 
himself,  with  that  stupid  reasoning,  or  rather  unreasoning, 
which  men  always  use  at  such  times.  He  saw  her  bright  face 
about  the  old  Court—  saw  her  lovable  tender  wayc  with  his  mother 
— saw  even  his  father  relax  and  soften  under  her  dear  influence 
—saw  a  thousand  sweet  things  such  as  men  picture  to  them- 
selves; nay,  he  even  felt  her  soft  arms  about  his  neck;  and  his 
heart  beat  and  his  breath  came  quicker.  Then  the  sound  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  pavement  brought  him  back  with  a  rude 
shock  to  earth,  and  he  remembered  that  he  was  in  Willington, 
and  had  to  see  to  "  that  business  of  Cartwright's." 

Hector  had  certain  notions  about  women,  notions  that  are  con- 
sidered curious  and  old-fashioned  by  most  of  the  world  nowa- 
days. He  was  not  particularly  virtuous  or  moral  himself,  if  he 
had  been,  want  of  knowledge  might,  perhaps,  have  made  his 


DIANA    CARE\V.  87 

idea  of  what  a  lady  ought  to  be  less  rigid;  he  insisted  upon  the 
widest  line  of  deiriarkation  between  a  virtuous  woman  and  her 
frailer  sisters;  "  there  must  be  both,"  he  said,  "  but  let  it  not  be 
in  the  power  of  any  human  being  to  mistake  one  for  the  other." 
He  did  not  scruple  to  make  his  views  public;  so,  although  he 
was  an  undeniable  parti,  there  were  not  found  many  damsels 
enterprising  enough  to  aspire  to  the  chatelaineship  of  Alford 
Court. 

"  Figure-toi,  ma  cliere"  cried  little  Lady  Georgy  Wild  to  her 
sister,  the  Countess  of  Newmarket.  "  I  devoted  all  yesterday 
afternoon  at  Holland  House  to  that  bear  Montagu;  I  tried  to 
draw  him  out;  and  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?  He  had  the  im- 
pertinence to  tell  me  that  this  was  a  most  unfortunate  age  for 
girls  to  live  in;  that  the  atmosphere  of  society  was  frightfully 
unwholesome — the  haute  societe  in  particular;  that  if  we  only 
knew  what  really  pleased  men,  and  wished  for  their  respect,  we 
should  adopt  a  very  different  course  from  our  present  style  and 
behavior;  und  so  iceiter.  What  a  heavenly  time  the  future 
Lady  Montagu  will  have!  She  is  not  to  go  to  races,  nor  drive 
ponies  in  London,  nor  see  French  plays,  nor  read  French  novels 
— oh,  and  fifty  other  things.  Don't  you  pity  her,  Gwen?" 

"  He  must  marry  the  rector's  daughter  and  keep  her  shut  up 
in  the  country.  From  all  I've  heard,  though,  he  isn't  such  a 
saint  himself." 

"  So  I  told  him!"  laughed  Georgy.  "  Oh,  my  dear!  if  you 
could  only  have  seen  his  face!  I  was  bent  on  shocking  him,  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing:  so  I  told  him  that  the  very  first  place  I 
meant  to  go  to  after  I  was  married  was  Cremorne." 

"  Well,  and  what  did  he  say?" 

"  He  made  me  a  polite  bow,  and  remarked  that,  with  my  pro- 
clivities, it  must  be  very  contrariant  for  me  to  have  been  born 
in  my  present  sphere." 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  you  had  rather  the  worst  of  that  en- 
counter," observed  Lady  Newmarket,  dryly. 

'•  That  business  of  Cartwright's  "  brought  Mr.  Montagu  down 
from  the  ideal  to  the  real,  and,  as  he  drove  homeward,  his 
thoughts  took  a  more  practical  turn.  Did  Diana  like  him  ? — was 
there  any  ground  for  hoping  that  she  ever  would ''.  He  could  not 
answer  this  at  the  same  time  satisfactorily  and  truthfully.  But 
then  circumstances  had  been  against  him.  She  was  out  for  the 
first  time,  was  a  little  dazzled  by  the  silly,  superficial  attentions 
of  men  who  meant  nothing  (he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  his 
brother  individually  in  connection  with  Diana).  When  he  had 
her  to  himself  (as  he  would  have  if  she  came  to  the  Court,  for  he 
did  not  mean  his  mother  to  ask  her  until  Charlie  was  gone  back 
to  town),  when  he  could  lavish  all  his  kindness  and  care  upon 
her  undeterred  by  the  presence  of  others,  uninfluenced  by  the 
feelings  of  jealousy  that  had  made  his  manner  seem  cold  and 
severe  to  her — when  she  saw  all  the  desirable  things  at  Alford — 
yes,  in  spite  of  his  refusing  a  little  while  since  to  believe  in  her 
being  influenced  by  sordid  views,  he  was  not  above  appreciating 
the  aid  of  these  auxiliary  circumstances  in  his  own  case— tilings 
would  be  different.  Why  should  he  not  win  her  ?  he  was  not 


88  DIANA    CAREW. 

repulsive;  if  he  was  stiff  and  severe  to  others,  he  would  be  tender 
and  gentle  with  her?  She  had  few  opportunities  of  seeing  other 
men;  why  should  he  not  win  her?  As  he  drove  under  the  grand 
old  gateway  on  reaching  home,  he  told  himself  between  his 
clinched  teeth  that  he  would, 

It  has  been  the  fate  of  few  people  to  be  more  misunderstood 
than  Hector  Montagu.  People  said  he  was  "  so  like  his  father." 
He  knew  they  said  so,  and  it  drove  him  wild;  moreover,  it  was 
not  true.  Lake  in  feature  he  certainly  was;  some  likeness  there 
was,  too,  in  manner;  but  his  cold,  proud  demeanor  was  caused 
by  the  workings  of  a  shy,  sensitive  nature  thrown  back  upon 
itself,  not  the  haughty,  domineering  spirit  of  Sir  Hector.  His 
cynicism  was  in  reality  but  skin-deep,  though  the  world,  with 
its  usual  want  of  discernment,  believed  it  of  far  deeper  root. 

"  Nay,  the  world,  the  world, 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  ana  such  a  tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation." 

Oh,  what  a  difference  in  life  does  that  outer  shell  make  to  us 
•which  we  are  constantly  reminded  is  so  perishable!  A  winsome 
face,  a  pleasant  trick  of  speech  and  manner,  and  the  world's 
favorable  verdict  is  ours  at  once,  an  accepted  bill  payable  at 
sight;  but  lacking  these  happy  attributes,  how  must  we  struggle 
up-hill  into  its  favor!  Hector's  greatest  misfortune  was  his  re- 
semblance to  his  father;  because  he  had  the  same  features,  the 
same  voice,  and  something  of  .  same  manner,  he  was  accred- 
ited with  his  father's  disposition.  Even  his  own  mother  ".' '  not 
understand  him,  She  never  guessed  ho-  •  the  partiality  ,  had 
unconsciously  shown  the  younger,  f  ro^?  lildhood,  had  rankled 
in  the  elder's  breast.  Charlie  rushed  to  her  ;  \  with  his  bright, 
joyous  face,  trampling  h-.  gown,  tearing  lie*:  incc,  to  a?k  for 
some  toy  or  treat  only  too  readily  accorded;  vhilet  '-  lector  stood 
aloof,  shy,  proud,  hurt,  craving  nothing  but  to  foci  his  mother's 
arms  round  him,  and  to  be  quite  sure  she  loved  him — even  him 
— also.  Charlie's  glib  tongue  could  ask  for  sweets  and  kisses. 
Hector,  shy  and  yearning,  waited  unj  they  were  offered  him, 
and  often  waited  in  vain. 

So  he  grew  up,  always  seeing  his  brother  preferred  before 
him,  and  always  uttering  in  his  heart  an  indignant  protest 
against  the  injustice  dealt  him.  Small  wonder  that,  child,  boy, 
man,  perpetually  feeling  his  birthright  wrested  from  him,  he 
should  become  bitter  and  disappointed.  His  features  lent  them- 
selves more  naturally  to  a  grave  than  a  gay  expression;  he  could 
not  even  assume  at  will  the  genial  smile  his  father  wore  in 
society  when  he  chose  to  unbend.  Perhaps  he  would  not;  he 
hated  that  lying  semblance  of  bonhomie  more  than  Sir  Hector's 
direst  frown.  He  did  not  fear  his  father;  if  he  yielded  him  the 
outward  respect  which  his  own  sense  of  propriety  told  him  was 
due  from  son  to  father,  he  despised  him  in  his  heart.  His  soul 
revolted  against  petty  tyrannies  exercised  on  the  weak,  against 
the  selfish,  overbearing  spirit  that  delighted  to  crush  every  inde- 
pendent thought  in  the  breasts  of  those  over  whom  he  ruled.  He 
heard  his  father  once  flatteringly  described  as  a  fine  specimen  of 


DIANA    CAREW.  89 

the  old  Tory  school;  upon  which  he  reflected  to  himself,  "  I  al- 
ways thought  my  principles  were  Conservative;  but,  if  he  is  a 
fine  specimen  of  rny  party,  I  would  rather  yell  with  the  mob  and 
help  pull  down  the  park  railings." 

Mr.  Montagu  had  a  fine  scorn  for  meanness  and  time-serving- 
ness,  and  poured  it  unsparingly  on  those  who  to  his  mind  de- 
served it.  He  was  true,  honest,  straightforward;  but  these 
qualities  did  not  atone  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  for  his  want  of 
tact  and  his  cold  manner. 

And  yet  there  was  one  woman  who  understood  and  felt  for 
and  had  kind  thoughts  of  him — a  woman,  too,  who  was  all  that 
his  stern  code  required  of  her  sex.  Nay,  in  her  gentle  heart 
Claire  Fane  loved  and  esteemed  him  as  she  had  never,  would 
never  another  man.  And  he  might  have  been  so  happy  with 
her.  But  Hector  did  not  see  this;  perhaps  he  would  not. 

Once  his  mother  said  to  him.  "  Why  do  you  not  marry  Claire? 
I  should  love  to  have  her  for  a  daughter,  and  she  is  all  even  you 
could  desire  in  a  wife." 

Hector  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"I  marry  Claire?  What  an  idea,  mother!  Do  men  ever 
marry  the  woman  they  have  grown  up  from  childhood  with ! 
We  look  upon  each  other  as  brother  and  sister.  I  shall  never 
marry." 

He  thought  so  then.    But  now  it  was  different. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

NOT    TOLD    BY    DIANA. 

Two  days  passed.  Hector  felt  strangely  irritable  and  unset- 
tled— Hector,  who  was  usually  so  cold  and  quiet,  never  in  a 
hurry  about  anything.  He  longed  for  his  brother  to  go;  he  could 
do  nothing  toward  seeing  Diana  again  until  Charlie  was  out  of 
the  way.  Though  he  would  not  acknowledge  it  to  himself,  he 
was  bitterly  jealous  of  him. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  Mr.  Montagu  had  an  inspi- 
ration. He  would  drive  over  the  next  day  and  bring  Curly  back 
to  Alford  for  a  day's  hunting;  he  did  not  care  much  for  boys,  as 
a  rule,  but  this  one  seemed  a  nice  sort  of  lad,  and  he  could  talk  to 
him  about  his  sister,  and  then,  of  course,  he  should  see  Diana 
when  he  drove  over.  He  would  ask  his  father  about  it  next 
morning  at  breakfast,  and  be  off  before  Charlie  was  down.  Sir 
Hector  always  chose  to  be  asked  if  any  one  might  be  invited,  or 
took  good  care  to  show  the  guest  that  he  had  not  come  by  his  in- 
vitation. 

The  baronet  was  in  anything  but  an  amiable  humor  in  the 
morning;  the  post  had  brought  him  rather  an  impertinent  letter 
from  a  tenant,  with  whom,  however,  he  did  not  care  to  quarrel. 

Remarkable  to  relate,  cool,  collected  Hector  was  a  little  nerv- 
ous. 

"I'm  going  over  to  call  on  the  Carews  this  morning,  sir,"  he 
said,  as  he  came  in  (having  conned  his  words  all  the  time  he  was 
dressing,  and  trying  to  assume  an  off-hand  manner  which  was 
not  natural  to  him,  and  therefore  enough  in  itself  to  excite  sus- 


90  DIANA     CAREW. 

picion).  "I  suppose  you  have  no  objection  to  my  bringing  the 
boy  back  with  me  ?" 

"Hey!  what?"  cried  Sir  Hector,  snappishly,  bending  his 
brows;  "  what  do  you  want  with  boys  here  ?  Not  much  in  your 
line,  I  should  say." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  object  to  my  asking  him?"  said 
Hector,  looking  rather  dark. 

"  Ask  the  devil  if  you  like,  sir,"  retorted  the  baronet,  angrily; 

'•  but  just  tell  him  to  leave  hisd d  tops  and  marbles  at  home. 

My  lady"  (turning  furiously  upon  his  unhappy  spouse),  "this 
tea  is  no  better  than  hog's-wash,  the  toast  is  as  hard  as  a  brick- 
bat, and  the  kidneys  tough  as  leather.  If  you  think  I  pay  your 
fine  lady  of  a  cook  sixty  guineas  a  year  to  send  me  up  a  break- 
fast that  would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  scullery-maid,  I  can  tell 
you  you're  very  much  mistaken.  And  I'll  thank  you  to  tell  her 
so  this  very  morning." 

"Shall  I  have  some  more  made?"  says  Lady  Montagu,  sub- 
missively. 

"  Two  makings  of  tea  for  three  persons!"  growls  her  lord, 
furiously:  "there's  no  end  to  the  extravagance  in  this  house. 
You  seem  to  think,  my  lady,  that  I  have  the  fortune  of  a  re- 
tired iron-master  or  linen-draper,  and  that  the  servants  may  be 
allowed  to  waste  things  just  as  they  like.  If  you  looked  after 
things  a  little,  instead  of  loitering  about  with  a  parcel  of  trashy 
worsted  work  all  day  long,  I  might  have  a  little  more  comfort 
perhaps  in  my  home.  As  it  is,  I  have  had  an  infernal  bad 
breakfast,  and  I'm  very  much  indebted  to  you  for  it." 

Saying  which,  Sir  Hector  rises  angrily,  and  goes  out,  slam- 
ming the  door  after  him.  The  tears  stand  in  poor  Lady  Mon- 
tagu's eyes. 

'•Dear  me!"  she  says,  nervously,  " now  your  father  is  vexed 
again.  I  don't  really  notice  much  the  matter  with  the  break- 
fast, do  you,  Hector?  And  if  the  kidneys  are  tough,  there  are 
plenty  of  other  things  on  the  table." 

"  Why.  mother,"  answers  Hector,  "  don't  you  know  the  signs 
of  the  times  yet  ?  The  tea  is  capital;  so  are  the  kidneys;  but  he 
has  had  a  letter  he  does  not  like,  and  you  are  the  scapegoat,  as 
usual." 

"  So  you  are  going  over  to  the  Carews'?  Had  you  not  better 
take  a  message  from  me  ?" 

"  Thanks,"  says  her  son,  taking  her  hand— an  unusual  demon- 
stration for  him;  "  or,  mother,  would  you  mind  writing  a  line 
to  say  you  hope  to  go  over  and  call  when  the  days  are  a  little 
longer  ?" 

Lady  Montagu  does  as  she  is  told  obediently,  and  half  an  hour 
later  Hector  is  on  the  way  to  Carew  Court.  It  is  a  crisp,  frosty 
morning;  the  roads  are  dry  and  hard,  and  the  horse's  hoofs  make 
a  sharp,  ringing  sound  as  they  beat  the  ground  with  a  quick, 
regular  tread.  The  January  sun  shines  with  what  force  he  can 
this  wintery  month,  and  to  Hector  everything  seems  cheery  and 
exhilarating.  He  has  liked  women  before  to-day,  has  even  fan- 
cied himself  in  love;  but  never,  never  until  now  has  he  felt  that 
keen  longing  for  the  sight  of  a  face  that  has  possessed  him  these 


DIANA     CAREW.  91 

three  days.  It  is  not  likely  she  will  be  absent  from  home;  but, 
if  she  should  be,  he  feels  the  disappointment  will  be  almost 
greater  than  he  can  bear.  Probably  he  conveys  his  impatience 
through  his  finger-tips  to  the  brown  mare's  sensitive  mouth,  for, 
nothing  loath,  she  flies  over  the  crisp  road,  and  when  Hector 
draws  rein  at  Carew  Court  he  finds  it  is  only  an  hour  and  thirty- 
five  minutes  since  he  started.  His  groom,  who  wears  the  mask 
of  stolid  impenetrability  which  becomes  a  good  servant,  has  nev 
ertheless  been  speculating  as  to  the  cause  of  this  hot  and  unusual 
haste  of  his  master,  but  when  he  sees  a  pretty  young  lady  with 
a  blushing  face  and  smiling  brown  eyes  come  forward,  measure 
in  hand,  from  which  she  is  feeding  her  poultry,  and  welcome 
Mr.  Montagu,  who  jumps  down  with  a  glad  bright  look  such  as 
is  seldom  seen  on  his  stern  face,  Jim  thinks  he  sees  his  way  to  it, 

"  Oh,  how  d'ye  do,  Mr,  Montagu?  How  good  of  you  to  come 
and  see  us!'  cried  Diana,  looking,  as  she  really  feels,  very  glad 
to  see  him.  "  How  hot  your  poor  horse  is!  What  a  shame  to 
drive  him  so  fast!  You  must  put  him  up.  and  I'll  get  some  hay 
and  corn  for  him.'  And  at  this  juncture  Curly,  who  has  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels,  comes  rushing  out  and  does  the  honors  of 
the  stables.  Neither  of  them  had  cared  very  much  about  their 
present  visitor  at  Warrington.  but  they  have  both,  though  they 
kept  it  bravely  to  themselves,  felt  a  little  bit  moped  and  dull 
since  their  return  home,  and  Mr,  Montagu  seems  a  link  of  that 
pleasant  past  which  they  look  back  to  so  fondly,  There  is 
another  reason,  too,  why  blushing  Miss  Diana  feels  so  glad  to 
see  him.  but,  oh,  if  it  could  only  have  been  his  brother! 

Hector— poor  fellow — cannot  fathom  the  reason  of  her  glad- 
ness, but  he  can  see  that  she  is  glad,  and  takes  it  all  joyfully 
and  eagerly  to  himself  He  is  quite  genial,  he  laughs :  he  shows 
the  greatest  interest  in  all  her  pets,  insists  on  being  introduced 
to  the  dogs  and  cats  and  ferrets,  and  seems  charmed,  as  he  is 
for  her  sake,  with  everything  that  he  sees. 

"  How  could  I  think  he  was  not  nice?"  Diana  says  to  herself; 
reproachfully  He  has  given  her  his  mother's  note,  the  kindest 
one  imaginable,  it  opens  a  vista  of  undreamed  joys  before  her, 
and  she  looks  upon  him  as  a  benefactor.  But  he  is  not  the 
fairy- prince,  he  is  only  the  beneficent  genius  come  to  conduct 
her  to  him,  Poor  Hector! 

Then  he  is  taken  into  the  house  and  introduced  to  Mr  Carew. 
He  sees  a  dark,  handsome  man,  of  erect  and  stately  bearing,  in 
the  prime  of  life,  though  with  many  gray  hairs,  and  a  worn  look 
about  the  mouth  and  eyes.  His  manner  is  polished  and  kindly, 
if  a  shade  stiff  at  first,  but  Hector  goes  forward  in  his  most 
polished  manner,  and  the  two  men  take  to  each  other  at  once, 
Hector  chronicled  that  morning  afterward  as  the  happiest  he 
had  ever  spent,  He  had  only  intended  putting  the  mare  up  for 
an  hour  and  taking  Curly  back  with  him  to  lunch,  but  father 
and  daughter  both  pressed  him  so  hospitably  to  stay  that  he 
retracted  his  faint  excuse  and  consented,  nothing  loath,  though 
he  stoutly  averred  that  he  never  ate  lunch,  Miss  Diana  ran  to 
Gay,  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent. 


92  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  Gay,"  she  cried,  bursting  into  the  housekeeper's  room,  "  Mr. 
Montagu  is  going  to  stay  to  lunch." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  what  ever  will  you  do  ?"  cries  Gay,  dismayed. 

"  He  won't  expect  much,':  returns  Diana,  "  and,  if  he  does,  he 
must  be  disappointed." 

"But,  my  dear,"  remonstrates  Gay,  "  I'm  sure  if  things  isn't 
nice  your  pa  will  feel  hurt." 

'•  Well,  then,  he  sha'n't  feel  hurt.  We  have  a  chicken  in  the 
house — isn't  it  lucky  I  had  it  killed?— and  some  neck  of  mutton — ' 
you  make  lovely  cutlets,  you  know,  Gay,  and — and  a  milk 
pudding;  and  there's  a  lunch  fit  for  a  king." 

"  Well,  that  might  do,"  says  Gay,  taking  a  more  hopeful  view 
of  things;  "but  there's  that  Sally;  she'll  go  and  spile  all— drop 
all  the  things,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  and  make  a  clatter  with  the 
plates,  which  is  sure  to  vex  your  pa." 

"She  shall  not  come  in  at  all,"  answers  Diana,  promptly, 
"  Curly  says  it  is  the  proper  thing  to  wait  upon  yourself  at  lunch. 
And,  Gay,  give  me  out  that  big  Dresden  vase;  I  will  fill  it  with 
flowers  and  put  it  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  we  shall  be 
quite  smart." 

Hector,  talking  to  Mr.  Carew,  looks  out  of  the  window  and- 
sees  a  slight  form  flitting  to  and  fro,  basket  in  hand,  snipping 
off  chrysanthemums  with  a  ruthless  hand, 

"  I  think  Miss  Carew  wants  a  little  help,"  he  says,  dreadfully 
disconcerted  to  find  the  color  mounting  to  his  face.  Miss 
Carew's  father  takes  the  hint. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  into  the  garden,"  he  remarks, 
rising,  and  opening  the  window.  After  Hector  has  gone  out,  he 
looks  thoughtfully  at  the  pair  in  the  distance. 

"  I  suppose  I  cannot  expect  to  keep  her  forever,  poor  little 
girl!"  he  is  thinking,1  "and  Montagu  seems  a  good  sort  of 
fellow." 

"  Do  let  me  help  you:  may  I  ?"  says  Hector,  when  he  reaches 
Diana,  as  if  he  was  asking  some  great  favor. 

"  You  may  hold  the  basket,"  she  answers,  beaming  a  friendly 
look  upon  him  out  of  her  brown  eyes  as  she  hands  him  the  bas- 
ket. "I  don't  care  a  bit  for  chrysanthemums,  do  you?"  she 
proceeds,  snipping  off  another;  "  they  are  so  dull  and  sober- 
looking!  Oh!"  (with  enthusiasm)  "  how  happy  I  should  be  if  I 
could  have  a  hot-house  full  of  roses  and  geraniums  and  lovely 
rare  flowers  like  Mrs.  Warrington!  I  love  flowers  in  the  sum- 
mer, but  I  love  them  ten  times  more  in  the  winter." 

Hector  thinks  of  the  hot-houses  at  home,  thinks  how  easily 
they  may  be  hers,  with  all  other  desirable  things  that  he  pos- 
sesses or  will  possess,  if  she  only  deigns  to  accept  them.  He 
longs  to  tell  her  so,  but  feels  it  is  too  soon  yet.  So  he  only  says, 
eagerly: 

"  We  have  plenty  at  home.  I  will  bring  you  over  baskets  full. 
May  I,  sometimes?" 

"May  you?"  asks  Diana,  archly:  "indeed  you  may.  But 
what  would  Lady  Montagu  say  ?" 

"She  would  be  delighted,  of  course.    I  do  so  want  you  to 


DIANA    CAREW.  93 

know  her.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  her.  She  is  so  kind  and 
gentle.  And  I  know  she  will  love  you,' 

'  It  is  very  rash  for  a  man  to  answer  for  women  liking  each 
other,"  laughs  Diana.  "  at  least  I  have  heard  so," 

''How  can  they  help  it  when  they  are  both  sweet,  and  kind, 
and  good  T  answers  Hector,  warmly. 

"  How  do  you  know  I  am  kind  and  good  ?"  asks  Diana,  with 
laughing  eyes.  "I  think  you  found  me  anything  but  that  at 
Warrmgton.  we  used  to  quarrel  rather.'' 

"  But  we  never  shall  again."  he  says,  with  an  eagerness  that 
rather  abashes  her  "  I  am  not  really  such  a  disagreeable  fellow 
as  you  thought  me,  am  I  ?" 

"  I  think  you  are  very  nice,':  answers  Diana,  a  little  confused, 
but  wishing  to  be  polite. 

*'  You  will  come  and  stay  with  my  mother,  will  you  not?1'  he 
continues-  "  And  then  I  hope  I  shall  make  you  think  better  of 
me  than  you  did  at  Warrington.  I  don't  think  I  shine  very 
much  in  society— particularly  "  (his  face  darkening)  "  when  my 
brother  is  there." 

Diana  stoops  to  gather  a  flower.  She  wants  to  hide  her  face 
for  fear  it  should  betray  her  disappointment.  Going  to  Alford 
does  not  seem  very  tempting  if  Captain  Montagu  is  not  to  be 
there 

Curly  is  radiant  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  his  visit:  he  is 
to  hunt  one  day,  shoot  the  next,  and  Mr.  Montagu  is  to  bring  him 
back  on  the  third.  He  was  not  quite  sure  at  first  if  it  was  right 
to  leave  his  father  and  Diana  now  that  he  would  so  soon  be  going 
back  to  Eton ;  but  they  will  not  hear  of  his  refusing. 

Diana  and  her  father  stand  at  the  door,  watching  them  off. 
The  last  adieus  have  been  waved,  they  are  out  of  sight  now,  and 
the  two  turn  to  go  into  the  house. 

"  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  be  young  and  to  have  life  before 
one!"  says  Mr.  Carew,  with  a  smile  that  is  yet  very  sad. 

Diana  puts  her  hand  through  her  father's  arm,  and  rubs  her 
cheek  against  his  shoulder.  She  does  not  feel  very  blithe,  some- 
how, although  whilst  their  visitor  was  with  them  she  had  been 
quite  gay  and  cheerful.  Curly  had  asked  the  question  she 
longed  yet  dared  not  to  put:  Was  Captain  Montagu  at  Alford? 
And  Hector  had  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  changed  the 
subject  at  once.  Poor  Diana's  heart  had  gone  after  Curly,  who 
is  to  have  the  unutterable  bliss  of  seeing  him  so  soon:  he  is 
scarcely  gone,  and  she  is  longing  for  him  to  be  back,  that  she 
may  ask  him  a  thousand  questions  about  her  love.  She  cannot 
get  him  out  of  her  poor  little  head,  nor  home  nor  father  nor  pug 
nor  kittens  can  fill  that  void  which  has  lately  crept  into  her 
heart.  What  though  she  knows  her  love  is  hopeless? 

"  One  cannot  take  back  love  at  will." 

She  has  gone  with  her  father  into  his  study,  and  is  sitting 
looking  dreamily  out  of  window,  whilst  her  hands  lie  idle  in  her 
lap, 

"  Montagu  seems  a  sterling  good  fellow,"  says  her  father, 
breaking  in  upon  her  reverie. 


9i  DIANA     CAREW. 

"  Yes,"  she  assents,  not  warmly,  nor  coldly,  but  m  the  same 
sort  of  tone  that  she  would  have  used  in  answer  to  the  proposi- 
tion that  it  was  a  fine  day. 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  taken  to  Curly,"  proceeds  Mr.  Carew.  "  I 
am  glad  both  you  children  seem  to  be  making  friends.  If  Lady 
Montagu  invites  you  to  Alford,  you  must  go,  Di.  I  don't  intend 
to  keep  you  shut  up  here  forever." 

"  What,  leave  you  again,  papa?"  says  Diana,  blushing  a  little, 
and  feeling  rather  guilty  as  in  her  seci'et  heart  she  cannot  help 
acknowledging  to  herself  that  she  longs  to  go  there. 

"I  cannot  expect  you  to  stay  with  me  always,"  says  her 
father,  smiling.  "  and  it  will  be  good  for  me  to  get  broken  in  to 
losing  you  by  degrees." 

Mr.  Carew  had  taken  an  idea  into  his  head— a  wrong  one- 
such  as  is  the  wont  of  fathers  with  regard  to  their  daughters. 
He  has  seen  that  Mr.  Montagu  has  a  great  regard  for  her,  and  he 
thinks  he  sees  that  it  is  reciprocated,  Was  she  not  evidently 

flad  to  see  him,  and  is  she  not  dull  now  that  he  is  gone?  The 
fontagus  are  a  good  old  family;  it  would  be  an  excellent  match 
for  Diana,  and  he  thinks  Hector  a  gentleman  and  a  very  nice, 
right-minded  sort  of  fellow.  Many  an  anxious  thought  has  he 
had  about  Di's  future;  he  fancies  he  sees  his  way  to  it  now,  and 
feels  happier  than  he  has  done  for  many  a  long  day. 

The  appointed  days  of  Curly 's  visit  dawdle  away;  on  the  third 
he  comes  back,  radiant,  but  alone.  Just  as  Hector  was  step- 
ping into  the  dog-cart  to  drive  him  home,  a  telegram  came  which 
obliged  him  to  go  to  London  by  the  two  o'clock  train.  "  So  I 
drove  myself,"  cries  Curly,  with  enthusiasm;  "and,  by  jingo! 
didn't  we  come  along  at  a  spanking  rate  just!  She  is  a  clipper, 
and  no  mistake,  that  browji  mare  of  his.  And  I've  brought  no 
end  of  game,  and  a  great  bouquet  for  you,  Di,  and  Lady  Montagu 
is  coming  over  next  week,  and  she  wants  you  and  the  dad  to  go 
and  stay  as  soon  as  I  get  back  to  Eton.  And  I'm  to  go  over  just 
whenever  I  like,  and  they'll  always  send  a  trap  for  me.  And 
Charlie's  battalion  is  going  to  Windsor  this  summer,  and  I'm  to 
go  and  breakfast  with  him,  and  we're  going  to  have  an  awful 
lark  on  the  fourth  of  June." 

So  Curly  pours  forth  his  flood  of  news  with  a  radiant  face,  and 
his  audience  listen  eagerly. 

*'  And  is  it  a  nice  place.  Curly?"  asks  Diana. 

"  1  should  think  it  is,  just,"  he  responds;  "and  kept  in  such 
apple-pie  order.  He's  an  awful  old  Tartar,  the  old  fellow,  though 
he  was  wonderfully  civil  to  me,  but  she  is  the  dearest,  sweetest, 
kindest,  prettiest  old  lady  I  ever  saw.  Charlie's  just  like  her." 

"  Is  Captain  Montagu  still  there?''  says  his  sister,  trying  very 
hard  to  speak  unconcernedly. 

"  He  goes  up  to  London  to-night,  and  precious  glad  he  is  to 
go.  he  can't  stand  home  for  long  at  a  time,  he  says;  it's  too 
grand  for  him.  The  old  fellow  will  have  such  a  lot  of  state  kept 
up,  and  all  the  others  hate  it.  By  jingo!  how  he  does  bully  'em 
all  round,  except  Hector,  and  he  won't  stand  it.  He  can't  get  a 
rise  out  of  Charlie,  neither,  for  he  does  the  languid  dodge,  just 
to  aggravate  the  old  fellow,  and  it  just  does,  too.  Then  he  turns 


DIANA    CAREW.  95 

round  upon  '  my  lady,'  and  abuses  her  for  everything  that  goes 
wrong,  in  a  nasty,  sneering  tone,  though  pretending  to  be  very 
polite  all  the  time." 

"  Did  you  have  good  sport?"  asks  Mr.  Carew;  and  Curly  forth- 
with launches  into  a  long  account  of  the  day's  hunt,  and  his 
splendid  mount,  followed  by  the  fullest  details  of  the  next  day's 
shooting.  Diana  waits  patiently  till  she  can  get  him  to  herself, 
that  she  may  put  certain  questions  on  a  subject  of  particular 
interest.  As  she  is  dressing  for  dinner,  a  knock  comes  at  the 
door. 

"  Di,"  says  Curly,  putting  his  head  in,  "  here's  a  note  from  the 
captain  I  forgot  to  give  you." 

Diana's  hand  trembles  so  she  can  scarcely  take  it  from  his 
outstretched  hand.  Luckily  for  her,  he  is  in  a  tremendous  hurry 
and  does  not  wait.  In  her  excitement  and  haste,  she  can 
scarcely  open  it,  she  has  a  strange  fluttering  at  her  heart,  and  is 
obliged  to  sit  down  before  she  can  read  it.  It  runs  thus* 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  CAREW, — Why  did  you  not  come  over  with 
that  nice  brother  of  yours  ?  I  have  done  nothing  but  wish  you 
were  here:  rather  selfish  on  my  part,  for  it  is  about  the  slowest 
house  to  stop  in  I  know  of.  Having  had  a  great  deal  of  leisure 
for  reflection,  I've  been  thinking  over  all  the  good  advice  you 
gave  me  (by  the  way,  you  really  ought  to  have  given  Rexborough 
a  chance,  too),  and  the  result  is  that  I  have  made  no  end  of  good 
resolutions.  Among  others  I  intend  to  retrench  in  some  of  my 
little  extravagances,  so  I  send  you  in  advance  some  of  my  con- 
templated savings  for  your  poor  proteges  you  told  me  about  who 
have  to  dine  off  dry  bread  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It  was  too 
bad  of  that  solemn  brother  of  mine  to  steal  a  march  upon  me 
and  go  off  in  the  gray  of  early  dawn  to  call  at  Carew  Court,  but 
I  shall  be  even  with  him  some  day.  If  you  ever  should  be  in- 
duced to  visit  Fogy  Hall,  pray  send  me  a  line  to  the  Guards' 
Club,  Pall  Mall.  Meanwhile,  give  an  occasional  pitying  thought 
to  the  hapless  victim  who  is  sacrificing  all  to  the  love  of  his 
country.  Yours  ever, 

"C.  E.  MONTAGU." 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

IT  is  May,  and  I  am  at  Alford.  My  visit,  which  was  to  have 
been  made  in  January,  had  to  be  deferred  in  consequence  of 
Lady  Montagu's  illness:  she  has  had  bronchitis,  and  is  only  just 
returned  from  Hastings.  At  Easter,  papa,  Curly  and  I  spent  a 
week  with  the  Fanes,  A  wonderful  event — papa  being  beguiled 
from  home:  however,  I  think  he  enjoyed  the  change  thoroughly, 
and  it  did  him  all  the  good  in  the  woi-ld.  I  was  glad  he  went; 
he  seemed  quite  to  come  out  of  his  shell,  and  was  so  bright,  so 
genial  and  delightful,  that  I  am  sure  if  I  had  been  any  one  but 
his  daughter  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  him.  He  took  an 
immense  fancy  to  Claire,  and,  but  that  she  is  so  dear  and  sweet 
and  good,  I  could  almost  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  be  jealous 
of  her.  It  was  a  charming  week. 


96  DIANA    CAREW. 

Colonel  Fane  was  kinder  than  ever;  we  were  the  only  visitors, 
and  they  made  us  thoroughly  happy  and  at  home.  I  have 
grown  to  like  Hector  Montagu,  though  I  shall  never  quite  get 
over  my  awe  of  him,  All  through  the  winter,  he  used  to  come 
over  frequently,  always  bringing  me  lovely  flowers  or  books  and 
music — anything  he  thought  I  should  like.  Papa  has  taken 
wonderfully  to  Monsieur  Montagu,  and  seems  to  like  to  speak  of 
him  and  always  in  his  praise.  I  wonder  if  he  would  like — the 
other  one.  I  am  afraid  he  would  think  him  frivolous.  But,  oh, 
I  believe  in  my  heart  that  he  is  capable  of  better  things;  and  it 
is  the  useless  idle  life  of  pleasure  he  lives  that  makes  him  seem 
•what  he  does:  how  could  he  have  those  kind,  pleasant  ways  if 
lie  were  not  really  good  at  heart?  How  nice  of  him  to  send  me 
all  that  money  for  my  poor  people!  I  took  care  to  tell  them  it 
came  from  a  good,  kind  gentleman,  and  they  blessed  him  with 
tears  in  their  eyes.  Those  blessings  must  do  him  some  good:  at 
all  events,  I  like  to  think  so. 

Papa  was  most  anxious  about  my  visit  to  Alford.  Here  I  am 
at  last.  They  pressed  him  very  hard  to  come,  but  he  excused 
himself.  So  I  arrived  alone  the  day  before  yesterday.  Mr. 
Montagu  was  on  the  steps  to  receive  me,  and  gave  me  such  a 
hearty  welcome  that  I  felt  p.t  home  at  once.  Then  he  carried  me 
off  to  his  mother's  boudoir,  and  as  I  entered  she  rose,  and  taking 
both  my  hands,  kissed  me,  and  said,  so  sweetly  and  kindly,  how 
glad  she  was  that  I  had  come  at  last,  and  I  fell  in  love  with  her 
on  the  spot.  My  eyes  grew  quite  dim;  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  I  was  conscious  of  the  wish  that  I  had  a  mother.  Presently 
Sir  Hector  came  in,  and  greeted  me  very  kindly,  and  I  thought 
to  myself  that  he  had  been  very  unduly  abused,  but  changed 
my  mind  no  later  than  that  very  evening.  It  is  a  grand  old 
place,  but  there  is  more  state  than  comfort  about  it,  except  in 
Lady  Montagu's  boudoir,  which  is  the  essence  of  coziness.  Sir 
Hector  said  contemptuously  that  it  was  nothing  but  "  a  litter  of 
untidy  trash,"  but  I  do  not  agree  with  him.  I  take  care,  though, 
to  be  very  meek  and  modest  with  him,  and  not  to  venture  an 
opinion  unless  I  know  it  will  be  well  received.  I  am  terribly 
afraid  of  him;  nay  awe  of  his  son  disappears  completely  in  his 
presence,  and  I  look  upon  him  as  a  friendly  power.  I  vexed 
him  quite  unintentionally  the  day  I  arrived.  I  can  understand 
it  now,  though  I  did  not  then.  It  was  soon  after  my  arrival. 
Sir  Hector,  having  had  a  little  pleasant  chat  witb  nie,  asking 
kindly  after  papa,  and  regretting  that  he  had  not  come,  went 
out. 

"How  like  you  are  to  your  father!"  I  remarked,  innocently, 
thinking  rather  that  I  was  paying  him  a  compliment,  for  Sir 
Hector  is  a  very  fine  old  man. 

The  color  flushed  into  his  face,  and  he  said,  looking  dreadfully 
hurt: 

"  Do  not  you,  of  all  people,  say  that!"  Then,  as  I  looked  and 
felt  horribly  confused,  he  went  on,  trying  to  smile.  "  I  dare  say 
you  think  it  rather  a  compliment,  now;  but  you  will  soon  under- 
stand why  I  do  not  consider  it  one," 


DIANA    CAREW.  97 

"  Hector!  my  dear  Hector!"  cried  his  mother,  reproachfully; 
but  he  laughed,  and  said: 

"My  mother,  like  all  good  women,  loves  her  tyrant,  and  huga 
her  chains.  I  dare  say  you  would  too  '  (looking  at  me  keenly), 
"  only  let  us  hope  a  better  fate  is  in  store  for  you." 

'•  You  must  not  let  my  son  give  you  any  wrong  impressions," 
says  Lady  Montagu,  nervously;  "  indeed,  he  should  not  say  such 
things.  Sir  Hector  is " 

"  I  was  wrong,  mother,"  he  answered.  "  I  ought  to  have  left 
Miss  Carew  to  draw  her  own  conclusions,  unprejudiced.  I  should 
have  done  so  if  she  had  not  greeted  me  with  the  remark  that 
never  fails  to  get  a  rise  out  of  me,  as  Curly  would  say  "  (looking 
at  me  and  laughing). 

"  I  quite  fell  in  love  with  your  brother,"  utters  Lady  Montagu, 
gently,  "  he  is  so  frank  and  open,  and  so  handsome.  He 
reminds  me  very  much  of  what  dear  Charlie  was  at  his  age." 

"Will  you  not  like  to  see  your  room':"  Hector  breaks  in, 
abruptly,  much  to  my  chagrin,  just  as  the  dear  name  I  am  long- 
ing to  hear  is  uttered. 

A  tinge  of  pink  comes  into  his  mother's  pale  cheeks,  and  she 
darts  a  little  nervous  glance  at  him,  evidently  thinking  she  has 
been  indiscreet. 

"  Yes,  you  will  like  to  take  your  hat  off,  will  you  not  ?  I  ought 
to  have  asked  you  before.  Hector,  please  ring  the  bell,  and  tell 
them  to  send  Ford  to  Miss  Carew's  room." 

So  I  go,  feeling  a  little  bit  indignant  with  Mr.  Montagu. 

"  The  second  bell  rings  five  minutes  before  dinner,"  he  whispers; 
"be  sure  you  are  in  the  small  drawing-room  three  minutes  after 
it  sounds.  We  live  by  clockwork  here." 

I  do  not  fail  to  take  his  hint;  to  the  moment  indicated  I  make 
my  appearance.  Sir  Hector  is  there,  standing  pompously  in 
front  of  the  fire;  his  son  is  reading  the  Times  by  the  window. 
There  is  still  faint  daylight.  Sir  Hector  nods  approvingly  at  me 
as  I  enter. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  possess  the  virtue  of  punctuality,"  he 
says,  looking  at  me  over  his  big  white  neckcloth  with  a  patron- 
izing smile.  "  Nothing  can  be  done  without  it.  It  is  the  one 
thing  I  insist  upon." 

The  clock  chimes  the  half-hour;  simultaneously  the  gong 
sounds;  simultaneously  the  door  opens,  and  the  butler,  entering, 
announces: 

"  Dinner  is  served,  Sir  Hector." 

My  host  extends  his  arm  to  me.  I  half  hesitate;  Lady  Mon- 
tagu is  not  there. 

"  /  never  wait  for  any  one,"  says  Sir  Hector,  sternly,  and  forth- 
with conveys  me  to  the  dining-hall, 

On  the  way  we  meet  Lady  Montagu  hastening  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  clasping  a  bracelet  as  she  goes, 

"  I  had  no  idea  I  was  late,"  she  says,  nervously, 

"  Lady  Montagu,"  says  her  husband,  addressing  me  in  a  voice 
audible  to  the  servants  as  well  as  to  herself,  "  Lady  Montagu 
has  brought  unpunctuality  to  a  science.  She  would  undoubt- 
edly have  been  one  of  the  five  foolish  virgins  of  the  parable. 


98  DIANA    CAREW. 

For  what  we  are  about  to  receive  may  the  Lord  make  us  truly 
thankful!  I  only  trust  to-day  "  (speaking  to  me  as  he  consults 
his  menu)  "  that  there  may  be  something  for  which  we  may  have 
cause  to  be  grateful.  Our  cook,  thanks  to  my  lady,  is  anything 
but  a  cordon  bleu.  As  usual "  (tasting  his  soup),  ''  the  cayenne- 
box  has  been  upset  into  the  soup.  Simkins,  take  it  away  "  (ad- 
dressing the  butler  savagely,  and  proceeding  to  write  something 
on  a  porcelain  slate  with  a  pencil). 

I  quite  understand  now  why  he  is  not  popular,  and  why  Hec- 
tor was  vexed  at  my  innocently-meant  speech.  I  feel  dreadfully 
uncomfortable.  This  is  my  first  taste  of  the  stalled  ox  with 
strife.  Oh,  for  my  dinner  of  herbs!  Presently  I  take  courage 
to  look  round  me.  We  four  people  are  dining  in  a  banqueting- 
room  big  enough  for  a  hundred  guests,  and.  although  a  long 
screen  of  gold  stamped  leather  divides  it  in  half,  it  still  feels  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  party.  It  does  not  look  bare,  for  it  is 
magnificently  decorated  throughout.  Our  table  is  lighted  by 
mediaeval  lamps  from  above;  there  is  a  great  show  of  silver  and 
gold  plate,  with  many  flowers,  on  the  table  and  the  grand  old 
oaken  sideboard.  Through  the  great  mullioned  windows  oppo- 
site nie  I  can  see  in  the  waning  light  a  sea  of  velvet  turf  shaded 
by  dark  cedars,  and  the  last  red  streaks  of  the  gorgeous  sunset. 
Inside  there  is  so  much  to  be  seen  that  I  can  only  at  present  get 
a  confused  general  idea  of  all  the  beautiful  things  crowded  to- 
gether; but  next  morning  I  get  Mr.  Montagu,  after  breakfast,  to 
show  and  explain  everything  to  me.  Then  I  am  fairly  aston- 
ished by  all  the  treasures,  The  carved  chimney-piece,  a  gem  in 
itself,  ascends  to  the  ceiling.  On  either  side  of  it  are  quaint 
brass  sconces.  Oak  chests  and  cabinets,  curious  marqueterie 
cupboards  abound,  with  antique  sideboards  and  chiffoniers,  cov- 
ered with  Nankin  and  Majolica  ware,  with  Venetian.  Dutch,  and 
German  glass.  Scarce  an  inch  of  wall  that  is  not  covered  with 
paintings,  china  plaques,  vast  round  dishes,  sconces,  brass 
shields,  brackets,  carving.  Dutch  scenes  here,  old-fashioned 
portraits  there,  quaint  carvings  on  wood,  ivory,  mother-of-pearl. 
There  is  a  magnificent  old  Amsterdam  clock,  with  sweet  ring- 
ing chimes,  that  tells  you  all  sorts  of  things  about  the  sun, 
moon,  stars,  days,  weeks,  months,  and  I  know  not  what.  Mr. 
Montagu  is  greatly  amused  at  my  childish  delight  in  pretty 
things,  and  does  cicerone  very  pleasantly. 

I  am  very  glad  when  dinner  is  over;  it  has  not  been  a  cheerful 
meal,  for,  although  Sir  Hector  has  been  all  that  is  kind  and  po- 
lite to  me,  he  has  quite  destroyed  any  pleasant  impression  he 
might  have  made  by  his  frequent  and  savage  invectives  against 
the  dinner  and  servants,  and  the  sneers  directed  to  his  wife. 
Glad  am  I  when  Lady  Montagu  gives  me  the  signal  to  1'etire. 

"  We  shall  not  be  long,"  says  Mr.  Montagu,  smiling,  as  I  pass 
through  the  door,  which  he  holds  open  for  us.  I  return  his 
smile.  I  am  not  a  whit  afraid  of  him  since  1  have  seen  his 
father.  As  I  follow  my  hostess  to  the  drawing-room,  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  hope  that  we  are  going  to  have  some  pleasant  chat 
wherein  I  shall  hear  mention  of  her  younger  son;  but  it  soon  be- 
comes evident  to  me  that  my  lady  is  sleepily  inclined.  She  in- 


DIANA    CAREW.  99 

deed  makes  two  or  three  attempts  to  talk,  but  I  see  her  head 
begin  to  droop  and  her  eyelids  to  close,  and,  that  I  may  not  in- 
terrupt her  doze,  I  retire  to  a  distant  sofa  with  a  book.  She 
wakes  up  for  a  moment  to  decline  the  coffee  that  is  brought  her, 
and  when  her  husband  and  son  enter,  but  relapses  again  into  a 
sweet  and  gentle  slumber  Sir  Hector  comes  up  to  me,  asks 
blandly  what  my  book  is.  passes  a  sweeping  and  comprehensive 
censure  upon  modern  literature  in  general  and  lady  novelists  in 
particular,  and  then,  retiring  to  an  arm-chair  near  the  fire,  fol- 
lows suit  most  audibly  to  my  lady.  Portentous  snores  issue 
from  his  aristocratic  nose,  but  they  have  only  the  effect  of  lull- 
ing his  wife  into  a  sounder  though  soft-breathed  slumber. 

"  We  are  rather  a  cheerful  family  of  an  evening,"  says  Hector, 
sitting  down  beside  me.  "  I  have  a  sort  of  guilty  feeling  that  I 
ought  to  have  prepared  you  for  this." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  not  going  to  do  the  same,"  I  answer,  in  a 
whisper. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  out,''  he  remarks,  laughing;  "noth- 
ing short  of  an  earthquake  would  rouse  him  for  the  next  half- 
hour.  My  mother  "  (with  a  softer  inflection  of  his  voice)  "  sleeps 
so  badly.  I  am  always  glad  to  see  her  dozing.  Tell  me,"  he  goes 
on,  speaking  eagerly—"  I  have  been  burning  to  ask  you  for  the 
last  hour — do  you  still  think  me  like  my  father  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  I  answer  emphatically;  "  not  a  little  bit." 

"  But  do  you  think,"  he  proceeds,  earnestly — "  do  you  think  I 
have  the  making  of  what  he  is  in  me  'i  I  don't  want  you  to  flat- 
ter me;  you  are  sincere,  I  know;  tell  me  the  honest  truth.  Do 
you  think  if  I  had  a  sweet,  amiable  wife,  who  gave  in  to  me  as 
rny  poor  mother  has  done  to  him  all  her  life — do  you  think  I 
might  end  by  becoming  selfish,  and  hard,  and  tyrannical  like  he 
is  ?  Sometimes  I  have  a  horrid  misgiving  about  myself.  I  am 
oppressed  with  a  sort  of  nightmare  that  I  really  am  like  him,  and 
it  makes  me  wretched." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think,"  I  answer,  with  the  candor  for 
which  he  has  asked  with  such  apparent  sincerity.  "  I  don't 
think  you  are  a  bit  like  him,  really,  but  some — times — some- 
times  "  (I  hesitate). 

"  Well?"  he  says,  eagerly,  fixing  his  dark  eyes  on  my  face. 

"  I  think,"  I  proceed,  timidly,  "  you  try  to  make  one  afraid  of 
you ;  you  look  rather  stern  and  terrible.  You  did  at  Warring- 
ton.  I  used  to  feel  rather  in  awe  of  you  there." 

"  But  you  don't  now  lrv  he  whispers,  looking  almost  beseech- 
ingly at  me.  His  eyes  have  a  strange  expression:  if  eyes  could 
look  fierce  and  yet  soft  at  the  same  time  (I  know  it  sounds  para- 
doxical), I  should  say  his  looked  so. 

"  No,"  I  answer  confidently,  "  not  now." 

"  Promise  me  you  never  will  again,"  he  says,  hurriedly.  "  I 
may  nave,  I  believe  I  have,  a  trick  of  looking  stern  and  sneer- 
ing. I  don't  care  a  straw  what  most  people  think  of  me,  but  it 
would  hurt  me  to  know  you  could  feel  fear  or  repugnance 
toward  me — you  who " 

He  checks  himself,  seeing  perhaps  some  wonder  in  my  eyes. 
Why  should  he  be  concerned  about  my  thoughts  of  him '( 


100  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  Do  you  play  chess?"  he  asks,  with  rather  a  rapid  change  of 
subject. 

I  answer  in  the  affirmative. 

"Then  I  must  prepare  you,"  he  says,  smiling.  "My  father 
will  wake  up  in  precisely  twenty  minutes:  he  will  then  ask  you 
if  you  play  chess.  By  the  way,  are  you  a  good  loser?  does  it  vex 
you  to  be  beaten  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  very  least,"  I  answer,  truthfully. 

"Well,  I  must  warn  you,  if  you  play  indifferently,  my  father 
will  make  genial  little  sneers  at  you;  if  you  play  well  and  beat 
him,  he  will  be  furious,  although  he  will  endeavor  not  to  vent 
his  anger  upon  you;  if  you  play  well  and  he  beats  you,  he  will 
simply  adore  you,  and  be  radiantly  good-humored." 

"  Forewarned  is  forearmed,"  I  whisper,  laughing. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  says,  in  a  vexed  tone,  "  you  will  conceive  a 
most  odious  impression  of  us  as  a  family.  Confess,  now,  you 
will  go  to  bed  to-night  with  anything  but  pleasant  thoughts  of 
us;  you  will  be  longing  for  that  happy  home  of  yours,  where  you 
are  all  so  bright  and  loving  and  unselfish.  Do  you  know"  ( look- 
ing intently  at  me)  "  I  feel  a  different  being  when  I  escape  from 
the  atmosphere  of  this  place  and  get  over  to  Carew  Court:  that 
is"  (very  softly)  "  why  I  longedto  have  your  sweet  presence  here 
to  bring  sunshine.  I  feel  like  Pluto  did  when  he  carried  off 
Proserpine,  only  that  I  should  want  to  make  you  eat  all  the 
pomegranate." 

What  he  has  predicted  of  Sir  Hector  comes  true  to  the  letter; 
as  the  clock  chimes  half-past  nine  he  awakes,  and,  turning  his 
head  in  my  direction,  inquires  if  I  play  chess. 

I  make  the  proper  answer  under  the  circumstances: 

"  A  little." 

"  Let  us  have  a  game!"  he  exclaims,  rising  briskly.  "  Hector, 
oblige  me  by  getting  the  board." 

"  You  play  with  white  men,  of  course,  ladies  always  do,"  he 
remarks,  when  we  are  seated — which,  being  interpreted,  means 
that  he  plays  with  red.  1  am  a  tolerable  player;  papa  and  I  spend 
many  an  evening  over  the  game;  and  I  dare  safely  say  that  never 
yet  did  one  of  us  take  umbrage  at  the  other  winning.  Mindful 
of  Hector's  warning,  I  play  my  best,  but  take  care,  after  a  pro- 
tracted contest,  to  lose.  The  result  is  as  he  predicted;  Sir  Hector 
is  radiant,  and  pays  me  a  thousand  compliments. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  you  will  win  next  time,"  he  says,  with  cheer- 
ful patronage.  "You  play  an  excellent  game.  I  have  rarely, 
if  ever,  met  so  accomplished  a  chess-player  at  your  age.  Twenty 
minutes  to  eleven:  you  must  be  quite  tired.  Be  good  enough  to 
ring  for  candles.  Hector.  Come,  my  lady,  wake  up.  No  won- 
der you  cannot  sleep  at  night." 

Lady  Montagu  arouses  herself. 

'•  My  dear,"  she  says,  kindly,  as  she  bids  me  good-night,  "I 
have  been  very  rude.  But  I  am  a  very  stupid  person  in  the 
evening.  To-morrow  I  hope  we  shall  have  a  nice  long  chat. 
Meantime  promise  me  to  ask  for  everything  you  want.  I  do 
hope  you  will  sleep  well."  She  draws  me  to  her,  and  kisses  me 
gently  on  the  cheek.  Again  the  thought  comes  across  me  that  I 


DIANA     CAREW.  101 

should  like  to  hare  a  mother.    I  say  as  much  to  Hector  as  he 
walks  beside  rne  along  the  corridor. 

"  I  wish  my  mother  were  yours."  he  says  softly. 

"  So  do  I,"  I  answer,  without  any  arriere-pensee. 
*  "  Do  vou  ?"  he  whispers.  "  I  wonder  if  you  wish  it  in  the  same 
way  that  I  do." 

A  vexed  blush  mounts  to  my  forehead. 

"  Good-night,"  I  say,  rather  shortly,  giving  him  my  hand, 
without  looking  up. 

"  Good-night,"  he  answers,  lingeringly,  holding  it  until  I  am 
forced  to  look  at  him.  "  Do  not  be  vexed  with  me.  I  shall  never 
offend  you  intentionally.'1 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

I  HAVE  been  three  days  at  Alford  Court.  I  love  Lady  Mon- 
tagu; and  no  one  could  be  kinder  than  her  son.  I  can  hardly 
realize  that  he  is  the  same  man  who  used  to  frighten  and  bore 
me  at  Warrington.  After  breakfast  we  always  go  out  together, 
sometimes  riding,  sometimes  walking.  He  occupies  himself  a 
great  deal  about  the  property,  and  always  has  some  business  on 
hand. 

One  thing  I  remark  which  surprises  me  not  a  little;  it  is  his 
pleasant  manner  with  his  inferiors.  As  we  pass  the  cottages,  he 
always  has  a  kind  word  for  the  women  and  children;  he  seems 
quite  unostentatiously  to  know  about,  and  take  an  interest  in. 
their  personal  affairs.  I  notice,  too,  that  they  all  brighten  up 
and  look  very  pleased  and  cheerful  when  he  speaks  to  them. 
His  manner  to  servants  and  laborers  is  just  my  idea  of  what  a 
gentleman's  manner  should  be — oh,  such  a  contrast  from  Sir 
Hector's!  It  is  kind  and  dignified;  it  commands  respect,  and,  I 
can  see,  affection  as  well.  I  have  never  once  heard  him  speak 
harshly  to  or  of  any  one,  excepting,  perhaps,  his  father;  and  I 
really  cannot  wonder  at  that.  One  morning  he  has  to  go  to 
"Wellington  on  business,  and  I  occupy  my  leisure  in  visiting  some 
of  his  mother's  poor.  My  first  visit  is  made  to  one  of  her  special 
protegees,  a  woman  dying  of  consumption. 

I  find  the  poor  patient  by  the  fire,  though  it  is  a  warm  May 
morning,  in  a  room  beautifully  clean  and  neat,  and  with  many 
comforts  which  I  am  surprised  to  see,  but  which  she  explains  to 
me  presently  by  pointing  them  out  as  gifts  from  my  lady  or  Mr. 
Montagu.  She  is  propped  on  soft  pillows  in  an  easy-chair,  but 
she  looks  terribly  haggard  and  worn;  there  is  a  bright  spot  on 
either  cheek:  her  voice  is  faint  and  low,  and  seems  to  come  with 
an  effort.  She  is  immensely  interested  in  hearing  about  Lady 
Montagu,  and,  when  I  have  told  her  all  I  know,  she  goes  on  to 
tell  me,  in  her  feeble  voice,  of  my  lady's  goodness  to  her. 

"We  should  all  ha'  been  in  the  House,  or  starving,  if  it  hadn't 
ha"  been  for  her.  Sir  Hector's  a  hard  man,  miss;  he  don't  seem 
to  think  us  poor  folks  is  made  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as 
him.  I  don't  say  as  we  are,  miss,  altogether  like  "  (in  an  apolo- 
getic tone  which  makes  me  smile);  "  still,  we  are  flesh  and  blood, 


103  DIANA    CAREW. 

an*  we  hev  our  feelings,  an'  when  the  gentry  is  good  to  us,  like 
my  lady  and  Mr.  Montagu,  we're  ready  to  fall  down  an'  worship 
'em.  I've  heard  tell  as  poor  people's  so  ongrateful,  but  I  never 
see  it  so,  nor  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  there's  hardly  one  in 
this  village  as  wouldn't  lay  down  their  lives  for  my  lady  if  so  be 
as  they  was  called  upon  to  do  it.  And  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  wish 
harm  to  no  one,  standing  as  you  may  say  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave  myself;  but  it  will  be  a  blessed  day  for  Alford  when  Mr. 
Montagu  steps  into  Sir  Hector's  shoes.  He's  all  for  doin'  every- 
thing for  the  poor,  anr  buildin'  new  cottages,  an'  raisin'  wages, 
an'  encouragin'  poor  folks  to  take  a  pride  in  themselves;  an'  I 
have  heard  tell  that  he  an'  Sir  Hector  do  quarrel  dreadful  at 
times  about  it.  I  know  he  does  a  deal  out  of  his  own  pocket,  for 
Sir  Hector  is  one  of  those  as  'ud  skin  a  flint,  as  the  sayin'  is,  al- 
though he  keeps  up  such  a  deal  o'  grandeur  at  the  Court." 

I  have  more  talk  with  her,  and  then  I  go  on  to  pay  a  few  more 
visits  in  the  parish.  All  the  cottages  I  go  into  are  very  clean. 
Most  of  them  boast  some  present  from  my  lady  or  Mr.  Montagu, 
which  is  shown  me  with  great  pride. 

I  come  away  from  my  round  of  visits  with  a  greatly  height- 
ened opinion  of  Hector  and  a  certain  sense  of  shame  at  having 
so  misjudged  him.  Of  his  sweet  kind  mother  I  had  been  pre- 
pared to  hear  only  praise. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  cries  the  object  of  my  thoughts, 
reining  up  beside  me,  and  looking,  I  think  (feeling  as  I  do  ex- 
cellently disposed  toward  him),  stalwart  and  handsome  on  his 
fine  gray  horse. 

"  I  have  been  making  calls,"  I  reply,  laughing. 

"  Calls  ?"  he  echoes,  surprised.  "  Alone  ?  Oh,  at  the  rectory, 
I  suppose." 

"  No;  guess  again." 

"  But  there  is  no  one  else  to  guess." 

"  I  have  been  to  see  Mrs.  Seward,  and  poor  old  Brown,  and 
Mrs.  Banks,  and  Janet  Hill — quite  a  round  of  morning  calls." 

"  Have  you  really?"  he  says,  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  and  I  heard  a  great  deal  of  news,"  I  continue,  nodding 
my  head  wisely — "about  you,  too." 

"  What  did  you  hear  ?" 

"  Never  mind;  I  am  not  going  to  make  you  conceited." 

He  laughs  lightly. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  poor  people,"  he  says:  "  they  do  chatter 
so  dreadfully.  Of  course  they  would  be  sure  to  say  everything 
that  was  civil  about  us,  as  you  come  from  the  Court.'' 

"  Ah,''  I  remark,  mysteriously,  "  but  they  did  not  say  every- 
thing that  was  civil  about  everybody.  And"  (laughing)  "they 
did  not  say,  as  I  did,  that  you  were  '  so  like  your  father.' " 

"  Thank  God  for  that!"  he  says,  laughing  too.  "  What  are  we 
going  to  do  this  afternoon  ?  Does  my  mother  think  of  driving  ?" 

"  No,  the  wind  is  easterly,  although  it  is  so  fine,  and  she  is 
afraid." 

"  I  wonder —  -"  begins  Hector,  musingly,  and  then  pauses. 
"  What  do  you  wonder  ?" 


DIANA    CAREW.  103 

"  I  wonder  if  I  put  the  horses  in  the  mail-phaeton  if  you  would 
let  me  drive  you  out  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it,"  I  cry,  eagerly.  The  proprieties  have 
never  been  impressed  upon  my  young  mind,  probably  because  I 
have  never  had  the  least  chance  of  infringing  them. 

"  I  must  not  be  selfish,"  he  eays.  "  I  would  not  for  the  world 
let  you  do  anything  that  is  not  quite  en  regie.  Tell  me  "  (hesi- 
tating), "  do  you  think  Mr.  Carew  would  object  in  any  way?" 

"Object!"*!  exclaim,  wonderingly;  "  why  should  he?  You 
can  drive,  can't  you  ?" 

He  looks  amused. 

"  My  misgivings  are  not  on  that  head.  Let  us  go  in  and  ask 
my  mother." 

We  have  reached  the  stables;  the  groom  takes  his  horse,  and 
we  saunter  toward  the  house. 

Lady  Montagu,  when  applied  to,  does  not  see  any  objection, 
thinks  it  will  be  a  nice  change  for  me,  will  not  find  it  dull  alone, 
has  a  most  interesting  book  she  is  anxious  to  finish. 

Very  blithe  and  glad  1  feel  that  afternoon  when  Hector,  hav- 
ing helped  me  in.  jumps  up  beside  me.  It  is  a  heavenly  after- 
noon: the  sun  is  hot  and  bright,  the  sweet  spring  scents  come 
balmily  across  us  from  the  hedgerows,  and  the  keen,  cool  wind 
plays  in  our  faces  as  we  cleave  it  swiftly.  Perched  high  up  be- 
hind a  dashing  pair  of  horses  with  proudly  tossed  heads  and 
foam-flecked  bits,  sitting  beside  a  man  who  is  pleasant  company 
and  who  cares  to  please  me,  I  feel  life  such  a  good  thing;  a  de- 
licious exhilaration  floats  through  every  sense.  I  feel  happy;  I 
look  happy;  glad  laughter  bubbles  from  my  lips.  It  is  conta- 
gious; he  sees  it:  he  laughs,  too.  There  is  not  one  unkind  or 
sneering  curve  about  his  lips  to-day.  He  looks  at  me  ever  so 
kindly. 

li  Are  you  pleased  ?"  he  asks  me.  "I  think  you  are.  As  for 
me,  I  feel  like  a  schoolboy  out  fora  holiday  after  a  long  term. 
And  to  think  I  was  so  near  not  going  to  Warrington!  Jf  I  had 
not,  you  would  not  be  here  now;  I  might  never  have  known 
you."' 

"  What  a  loss,"  I  laugh. 

''It  would  have  been  a  loss,"  he  says,  gravely:  "perhaps, 
though  "  (with  a  sigh),  "  it  might  have  been  better  for  me." 

"  It  would  not  have  been  better  for  me,"  I  answer,  feeling  too 
happy  and  insouciante  to  weigh  my  words. 

He  turns  toward  me,  as  if  to  say  something;  then,  checking 
himself  abruptly,  he  points  with  his  whip  to  the  hedge. 

"  Is  not  that  hawthorn  delicious?"  he  says. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer;  "  but  that  is  not  what  you  were  going  to 
say." 

I  feel  a  delicious  little  sense  of  coquetry:  something  in  the  sun- 
shine, the  keen  air,  the  May  odors,  inspires  me:  I  long  to  hear 
soft  and  pleasant  words;  if  I  knew  what  the  sensation  was,  I 
could  almost  fancy  I  feel  inclined  to  flirt  with  my  companion. 
He  looks  at  me  with  a  grave  smile  that  seems  to  penetrate  my 
sensuous  enjoyment  of  the  moment. 

"  You  axe  right,"  he  says;  "  I  -was  going  to  say  something  else; 


104  DIANA    CAREW. 

but  I  will  not  say  it  now.  You  are  full  of  impulse;  you  are  a 
child;  but  I  am  a  man,  and  I  ought  to  be  superior  to  the  tempta- 
tions of  sudden  emotion." 

"  Now,"  said  I,  pettishly,  "  you  remind  me  of  what  you  were 
at  Warrington.  In  another  moment  I  shall  be  afraid  of  you 
again " 

"  Do  not,"  he  says,  quickly.  "  Why,  child  "  (with  a  pleasant 
smile),  "  how  could  you  fear  me?  Have  you  not  learned  yet 
that  you  are  everything  I  most  admire  and  reverence — young, 
pure,  sweet,  tmselfish,  modest,  charitable?"  He  speaks  in  a 
whisper,  but  there  is  a  ring  of  subdued  feeling  in  it.  "'  When  I 
was  at  Warrington  you  saw  me  stern  and  cold,  because  one  or 
other  of  those  women  (you  know  whom  I  mean)  chafed  and  an- 
gered me  every  moment;  I  could  not  even  bear  you  to  come  in 
contact  with  them.  I  felt  half  disposed  to  quarrel  with  Mrs. 
Warrington,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  because  she  had  asked 
an  innocent  child  like  you  to  meet  them.  And  then,  too  "  (sink- 
ing his  voice  still  lower),  "  though  I  hate  confessing  it,  I  did  feel 
a  little  jealous  when  I  saw  you  so  gay  and  merry  with  others, 
and  I  seemed  only  to  have  a  sort  of  wet-blanket  effect  upon 
you." 

"  Well,  you  have  not  that  effect  now,"  I  laugh.  "  I  shall  al- 
ways like  you  and  feel  at  home  with  you  in  future." 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?"  he  says,  rather  grimly.  "  I  have  no  one 
to  stand  in  my  way;  there  is  no  other  man  here  except  my 
father"  (laughing),  "  and  I  do  not  think  he  is  dangerous.  Sup- 
pose, now"  (his  face  darkening  suddenly). 

"  Do  not  let  us  suppose  anything,"  I  interrupt,  quickly,  with 
an  uneasy  intuition  of  his  thought.  "  Let  us  enjoy  this  lovely 
afternoon  and  be  happy." 

"  Let  us!"  he  echoes,  brightening  up.  "  You  are  quite  right. 
Sufficient  for  the  day  let  the  good  thereof  be,  and  don't  let  us 
spoil  it  by  anticipating  evil  for  to-morrow.  I  think  if  the  text 
had  been  worded  in  that  way  it  would  have  been  even  more  ap- 
plicable than  it  is." 

So  we  drive  along  the  smooth  white  roads,  up  hills  where  we 
get  lovely  little  glimpses  of  green  valleys  and  winding,  shimmer- 
ing waters,  and  down  again  into  sweet-smelling,  hedge-bound 
lanes,  past  cottages,  with  thin  blue  streaks  of  smoke  curling 
from  their  chimneys,  and  trim  gardens  sown  with  red  and  white 
daisies,  with  wall-flowers,  and  hedges  of  sweet-brier,  scenting 
the  air  around,  past  farms  with  their  neat  rows  of  golden  stacks, 
past  green  meadows  ablaze  with  buttercups,  where  the  sleek 
cattle  stand  almost  knee-deep,  past  village  churches  with  their 
quaint  old  towers,  their  grass-grown  mounds  and  moss-covered 
tombstones.  It  seems  sad  to  think  of  the  dead  this  fair  sp  ig 
day,  when  only  to  live  is  so  glad  a  thing.  A  little  shudder  creeps 
through  me  at  the  bare  thought  that  I,  too,  some  day,  shall  be 
with  those  that  sleep. 

"  Of  lips  full  of  love  and  laughter, 

Fair  brows  and  radiant  eyes, 
There  is  left  but  a  grinning  skull, 
And  perhaps  a  headstone  that  lies." 


DIANA    CAREW.  105 

We  have  passed.  The  thought  is  gone  again.  We  are  looking 
in  at  the  village  blacksmith's,  where  the  great  fire  roars  and 
blazes  up,  while  the  smith  stands  in  the  ruddy  light,  beating  a 
thousand  sparks  from  his  anvil,  and  the  big  patient  horses  wait 
until  their  turn  comes.  We  pass  some  tumbledown-looking  cot- 
tages, and  our  talk  falls  on  our  poorer  neighbors. 

"Ah,"  I  say,  with  some  enthusiasm,  "I  know  that  when 
Alford  is  yours,  you  will  be  a  model  landlord;  you  will  try  to 
make  your  people  better  off;  you  will  encourage  them  to  respect 
themselves,  and  that  they  cannot  do  until  they  are  put  in  the 
way  of  it  by  having  tidy,  clean,  convenient  homes." 

"  It  does  not  do  to  count  upon  dead  men's  shoes,  you  know," 
he  answers,  with  a  grave  smile;  "and  property  is,  after  all,  a 
very  serious  responsibility,  if  one  looks  upon  it  as  one  ought  to 
do/not  as  a  vehicle  for  selfish  indulgence,  but  as  a  means  to 
benefit  those  about  one.  Then  it  is  so  difficult  to  know  how 
really  to  do  good  to  one's  fellow-creatures;  it  isn't  enough  to 
have  the  will  or  even  the  means,  but  one  must  have  a  practical 
head  and  a  certain  familiarity  with  the  working  of  their  minds. 
You  have  only  to  take  up  the  newspapers  every  day  to  see  how 
the  most  benevolent  intentions  come  to  grief,  and  how  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  pounds  are  subscribed  yearly  that  hardly  do  one 
iota  of  good.  It  won't  do  to  insist  upon  benefiting  people  in 
your  own  particular  way;  you  have  to  find  out  what  their  way 
is,  and  then  set  to  work".  And  you  want,"  he  goes  on,  his  voice 
deepening  and  his  eyes  flashing,  "  help  and  sympathy  more  than 
anything  else  in  this  world;  because  there  is  nothing  so  heart- 
wearing,  so  bitterly  disappointing,  as  having  a  keen  desire  to 
help  your  brother-man,  and  finding  your  strivings,  as  they  are 
half  the  time,  dead  failures.  Look  at  my  mother,  what  a  sweet, 
kind,  sympathetic,  loving  nature  she  has — what  a  helpmate 
•would  she  have  been  for  a  man  in  my  father's  position  if  he  had 
ever  tried  to  do  any  good,  or  thought  of  anything  or  any  one 
but  himself — and  see  how  he  has  crushed  everything  out  of  her 
but  her  sweet  goodness  of  heart  and  pity,  which  nothing  could 
destroy.  Can  you  wonder  "(with  suppressed  passion)  "that  I 
hate  and  despise  him,  as,  God  forgive  me,  I  do  sometimes  ?  I 
dare  say,  though"  (changing  his  voice),  "  if  ever  I  do  come  into 
Alford  I  shall  not  do  a  quarter  that  I  think  and  believe  I  should 
now.  '  a  liberal-minded  heir  often  makes  a  stingy  lord,'  they 
say.  But  I  should  love  to  think,"  he  whispers,  ''that,  if  I  am 
master  here,  I  shall  have  a  loving,  tender-hearted  woman  for  my 
wife,  who  would  help  and  influence  me  to  do  what  is  right." 

He  fixes  his  dark  eyes  upon  my  face.  His  words  seem  to  thrill 
through  me;  the  quick  crimson  dyes  my  face.  What  does  he 
mean  ?  At  this  moment  we  drive  under  the  splendid  gateway  of 
Alford,  and  a  minute  later  stop  at  the  house  door. 


106  DIANA    CAREW. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
DIANA'S   STORY. 

"  How  provoking!"  exclaims  Mr.  Montagu,  next  morning  at 
breakfast,  looking  really  vexed,  as  he  put  down  the  letter  he  has 
been  reading. 

"  What  is  provoking?"  I  ask. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  go"  (sotto  voce  to 
himself).  Then,  aloud,  in  answer  to  me:  "  I  am  obliged  to  go  to 
London,  and  I  cannot,  by  any  possibility,  get  back  before  to- 
morrow afternoon." 

"  What  a  pity!"  I  say,  reflecting  that  it  will  be  rather  dull  in 
his  absence. 

"  If  I  had  only  had  this  yesterday  "  (crumpling  it  in  his  hand), 
"  writing  would  have  done  as  well;  but  now  I  am  bound  to  go— 
confound  the  fellow!" 

He  rings  the  bell  with  some  impatience,  and  Simkins  appears. 

"  Tell  Gibbs  to  put  the  mare  in  the  dog-cart,  and  be  round  in 
half  an  hour,  sharp." 

"  May  I  go  with  you  to  the  station  ?"  I  whisper. 

Sir  Hector,  with  his  head  out  of  window,  is  withering  up  the 
head- gardener  with  one  of  his  genial  sarcasms. 

"  Will  you  ?"  he  says,  looking  pleased.  "  Won't  it  be  hurrying 
you  too  much  over  your  breakfast  ?" 

'•Not  a  bit.  I  shall  love  a  drive  this  heavenly  morning.  I  only 
wish  it  was  ten  miles  instead  of  three." 

"So  do  I,"  he  answers  laughing;  "on  this  occasion  only, 
though." 

It  is  the  heavenliest  May  morning  the  mind  of  man  can  con- 
ceive, or  his  heart  desire.  There  has  been  a  shower  in  the 
morning,  and  now  every  leaf  is  a  shining,  radiant  green,  every 
flower  exhales  its  sweetest  odors,  every  bird  is  shouting  its 
triumphant  song  of  joy  and  welcome  to  the  new  day. 

"  Hark,  there  is  the  nightingale!"  I  say  to  Hector,  as  we  bowl 
swiftly  along  through  the  park.  "Do  you  remember  the  lines 
in  Enid?" 

"No,"  he  answers;  "I  am  not  good  at  poetry.  Tell  me 
them." 

"  When  first  the  liquid  note,  beloved  of  man, 
Conies  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemmed  with  green  and  red, 
And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a  friend 
To  think  or  say,  'There  is  the  nightingale.'  " 

And  Hector  says,  looking  at  me  kindly: 

"  I  should  soon  get  to  like  poetry  if  you  said  and  read  it  to 
me." 

"It  strikes  me,"  I  remark,  evading  the  compliment,  "that 
reading  would  be  dull  work  if  there  were  no  poetry." 

"  And  life  would  be  dull  work  if  there  were  no  love,"  he  says, 
gently. 


DIANA    CAREW.  107 

"  There  is  the  station  already,"  I  exclaim,  in  a  tone  of  disap- 
pointment; "  it  cannot  possibly  be  three  miles." 

"  Three  and  a  quarter  exactly,"  he  answers.  "  I  am  glad  you 
found  it  so  short.  Good-bye,"  giving  me  the  reins,  and  hold- 
ing my  hand  for  a  moment  in  a  strong,  kind  clasp.  "  Think  of 
me  once  or  twice  while  I  am  away!"  I  smile  assent. 

"  Drive  home  very  carefully,"  he  says  to  the  groom.  "Jump 
up." 

As  we  drive  gently  back  to  Alford,  I  feel  sorry  that  he  is  gone: 
the  day  will  not  be  so  pleasant  or  so  short  without  him.  I  am 
obeying  his  request  and  thinking  of  him  all  the  way  home. 
What  shall  I  do?  it  is  only  half -past  ten,  and  Lady  Montagu  will 
not  be  down  for  at  least  an  hour.  One  cannot  sit  in-doors  this 
heavenly  morning.  All  at  once  I  bethink  me  of  the  boat  on  the 
lake,  and  thither  I  betake  myself.  One  of  the  gardeners  unlocks 
the  padlock,  brings  out  the  cushions,  and  asks  if  I  will  have 
some  one  to  row  me.  I  decline.  I  want  freedom  to  enjoy  all 
the  sweets  of  this  May  morning;  I  will  have  it  all  to  myself. 
So,  when  he  has  loosed  the  boat  from  its  moorings,  I  lie  luxuri- 
ously back  on  the  cushions,  and  let  it  drift  lazily  where  it  will. 

Sometimes  a  little  current  carries  us  into  midwater,  some- 
times a  puff  of  wind  blows  us  back  under  the  deep  shade  of  the 
low-hanging  branches.  Shoals  of  big  carp,  unmindful  of  me, 
are  lying  atop  of  the  water,  their  burnished  brazen  sides  gleaming 
like  cuirasses  in  the  broad  sunshine;  they  come  so  near  the  boat 
that  I  can  almost  put  out  my  hand  and  touch  them.  The  big 
green  lily-leaves  are  spreading  over  the  water;  now  and  then  we 
catch  in  them  until  a  little  gust  blows  us  off  again.  The  warm 
rain  that  fell  in  the  morning  has  brought  out  a  thousand  new 
buds  and  flowers.  Yon  hawthorn  that  was  green  last  night,  is 
white  with  fairy-blossoms  this  morning;  the  laburnums  are 
dropping  their  lavish  golden  showers;  the  lilies  fling  up  their 
heads  proudly  above  the  evergreens;  a  rich  scent  rises  from  the 
moist  earth.  Through  the  branches  the  cool,  soft  wind  makes  a 
tender  soughing  sound,  swelling  and  falling  in  a  plaintive  ca- 
dence, like  waves  plashing  on  a  distant  shore.  The  blackbird's 
joyous  whistle  pierces  the  clear  air;  just  above  me  where  I  lie, 
a  thrush's  bright  eye  looks  down  upon  me  from  her  nest;  a  wren 
flits  into  her  neat  thatched  hole  in  the  bank;  a  torn-tit  flies  into 
his  house  in  the  pear-tree;  a  tiny  robin  sit  son  a  yew-branch  close 
to  my  head,  and  trills  me  a  little  song  with  his  head  on  one  side, 
whilst  a  thousand  of  his  full-throated  fellows  are  shouting  their 
paean  to  the  sun.  In  the  fir-trees,  yonder,  the  wood-pigeons  are 
cooing  their  tender  little  love-song,  and  in  the  distance  the 
cuckoo  chants  the  only  two  notes  he  knows. 

An  indolent  sense  of  bien-etre  fills  me.  "I  am  quite  happy!" 
I  murmur  to  myself: 

"  And,  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory,  from  old  habit  of  the  mind, 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  goldeu  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first." 

"  If  he  were  here!"  I  think,  and  a  slight  pang  thrills  through 


108  DIANA    CAREW. 

me.  I  hear  my  name  called  by  a  gentle  voice.  It  is  Lady  Mon- 
tagu, who  is  standing  on  the  bank. 

"  Is  it  you?"  I  cry,  springing  up,  and  punting  myself  shore- 
ward. "  Do  come  in  and  let  me  row  you."  She  shakes  her 
head. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  the  water,  and  the  sun  is  so  hot,"  she  answers, 
smiling.  "  Come  and  walk  in  the  shade  with  me,"  and  I  obey. 
"  I  have  just  had  such  delightful  news,"  she  continues,  as  I  set 
foot  on  the  bank;  "  Charlie  is  coming  to-day." 

My  heart  gives  a  great  bound,  the  treacherous,  riotous  blood 
springs  into  my  face,  and  I  stoop  quickly  and  pretend  to  busy 
myself  in  arranging  the  cushions. 

"  The  telegram  came  half  an  hour  ago,"  she  proceeds,  una- 
ware of  my  confusion;  "  he  will  be  here  in  time  for  dinner  to- 
night." 

My  heart  beats  tumultuously,  exultantly;  in  vain  I  say  to  my- 
self, "  He  is  nothing  to  you — he  cares  nothing  for  you;"  it  will 
not  be  repressed. 

Lady  Montagu  places  her  hand  upon  my  arm,  I  take  care  of 
her  camp-stool,  and  we  pass  up  and  down  under  the  fragrant 
firs.  . 

"You  have  met  him,  have  you  not?"  she  asks  of  me;  and  I 
try  to  say  "  yes  "  indifferently. 

"  He  is  a  dear  fellow,"  she  goes  on,  all  the  mother's  love  shin- 
ing in  her  beautif  ul  gray  eyes.  "  It  is  a  great  trial  to  me  seeing 
so  little  of  him;  but"  (sighing),  "  of  course,  his  profession  takes 
him  away  a  great  deal,  and  then  this  is  not  a  very  lively  place 
for  a  man  who  loves  pleasant  society  and  has  as  much  of  it  as 
he  does.  I  am  glad  you  are  here;  it  will,  make  it  less  dull  for 
him." 

As  she  speaks,  a  little  sudden  flush  comes  into  her  face,  and  I 
know  quite  well  what  thought  has  brought  it  there. 

"  I  want  him  to  marry,"  she  says,  after  a  slight  pause.  "  You 
know "  (looking  at  me),  "  he  is  not  like  Hector;  he  is  only  a 
younger  son,  and  must  marry  a  woman  with  money.  It  seems 
almost  a  pity  their  positions  cannot  be  reversed.  Hector  is  not 
in  the  least  extravagant,  and  poor  dear  Charlie — well,  it  is  very 
natural  with  his  disposition  that  he  should  value  luxury  and  ele- 
gance." That  is  how  the  fond  mother  puts  it.  "  My  sons  were 
always  so  different,"  she  continues.  "  Hector  is  so  high-minded 
and  good,  he  will  make  an  excellent  husband;  people  are  some- 
times a  little  afraid  of  him  at  first;  but  you,  my  dear"  (with  a 
little  pressure  of  her  arm  on  mine),  "  you  seem  quite  to  under- 
stand him." 

"  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  Mr.  Montagu  at  first,"  I  answer, 
"but  I  see  now  how  really  good  he  is,  and  I — I  admire  and 
respect  him  very  much."  In  spite  of  myself,  my  voice  sounds 
cold  and  constrained. 

"  He  has  a  very  great  admiration  for  you,"  she  says,  kindly, 
"  and  you  have  a  wonderful  effect  upon  him.  I  never  saw  him 
so  bright  and  lively  before;  he  is  of  a  very  sedate  disposition. 
Now,  Charlie"  (warming  with  her  subject) — "  Charlie  is  so  very 
cheerful  and  amusing,  in  spite  of  that  little  indolent  manner  he 


DIANA     CAREW.  109 

affects.  It  is  really  not  natural  to  him.  I  cannot  think  why  he 
does  it." 

I  long  to  burst  forth  into  eager  praise  of  him,  but  do  not  dare, 
lest  I  should  betray  myself.  I  have  no  fortune.  I  am  not  for 
him,  even  (I  think,  sighing)  if  he  had  a  thought  to  bestow  upon 
me.  So  I  content  myself  with  listening  whilst  the  fond  mother 
talks  gladly  on  upon  the  theme  which  has  of  all  others  the  most 
charm  for  me.  And  all  that  happy  afternoon,  as  we  drive  along 
the  scented  lanes,  or  sit  together  over  our  needlework,  or  I  read 
aloud,  a  triumphant  voice  is  shouting  in  my  ear,  "  He  is  coming!'' 

And  when  he  does  come  at  last,  and  his  cheery  voice  sounds 
in  the  hall,  I  am  almost  afraid  at  the  wild  rush  of  joy  that  flies 
to  my  heart.  The  door  opens:  his  mother  runs  toward  it:  she  is 
in  his  arms,  and  he  is  bending  over  her,  looking  handsomer  than 
ever,  and  kissing  her  affectionately.  Then,  lifting  his  eyes,  they 
meet  mine,  that  are  trying  ever  so  hard  not  to  look  glad  and 
eager. 

"  What!    Miss  Carew!     By  Jove!" 

That  is  all  he  says;  but  he  looks  pleased,  and,  coming  forward, 
takes  my  hand  with  the  warmest,  friendliest  clasp,  as  if  he  had 
known  me  a  lifetime. 

"  This  is  a  surprise!"  he  ejaculates.  "  Why,  mother,  you  did 
not  tell  me  when  you  wrote  that  you  were  expecting  such  a 
charming  guest.  Where  is  Hector ':" 

"So  unfortunate!"  says  Lady  Montagu,  looking  as  if  she  could 
not  take  her  smiling  eyes  from  her  sou's  face.  "  He  had  a 
letter  this  morning  that  obliged  him  to  go  up  to  London  imme- 
diately." 

"So  unfortunate!"  echoes  Charlie,  looking  at  me  with  eyes 
brimful  of  laughter.  "  I  wonder  now  whether  I  shall  be  able  to 
take  his  place  for  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours.  By  Jove! 
how  glad  I  am  to  find  you  here!  I  shall  write  for  extension  of 
leave,  and  you  and  I  between  us  will  turn  the  house  out  of  win- 
dows, and  drive  the  old  gentleman  to  the  verge  of  madness." 

"  Diana  will  not  aid  and  abet  you,"  returns  his  mother.  "  I 
can  answer  for  her." 

"You  don't  know,  my  dear,"  he  retorts,  gayly,  "what  Miss 
Carew's  capabilities  are.  I  suppose  she  has  felt  so  sat  upon  here, 
between  the  governor  and  Hector,  that  she  hasn't  dared  call  her 
soul  her  own." 

"  Indeed  I  have  been  very  happy,"  I  hasten  to  interpose. 

"  Not  a  doubt "  (his  eyes  laughing  more  than  ever):  "  and  now 
that  I  have  arrived,  you  are  going  to  be  happier  still." 

I  forget  all  about  my  promise  to  Hector  to  think  of  him,  or,  if 
I  do,  it  is  to  be  secretly  glad,  ungrateful  as  it  seems,  that  he  is 
away.  I  fancied  I  was  happy  and  contented  yesterday;  to-night 
my  heart  is  full  of  joy:  it  was  the  difference  between  negative 
and  positive  happiness.  What  care  I  bestow  upon  my  toilet! 
how  anxiously  I  consult  my  mirror!  how  I  long  to  know  what  is 
his  favorite  color!  Oh,  if  some  fairy  godmother  would  but  step 
in  for  once  and  make  me  passing  fair  for  my  Prince  Charming! 
Yet  all  the  time  an  uneasy  mocking  voice  within  me  keeps  say- 
ing, Foolish  one!  what  can  you  hope  to  be  to  him  ?  You  are  at 


110  DIANA    CAREW. 

best  but  a  pis-aller:  when  he  goes  back  to  the  lovely  high-bred 
women  of  his  society,  what  chance  have  you  of  being  remem- 
bered by  him  ?  Any  more  than  you  remember  Hector  ?  adds  a 
reproachful  mentor  within.  But  I  heed  no  warning  to-night: 
my  only  thought  is  for  the  present,  and  "  let  what  will  come 
after,"  I  say,  recklessly. 

When  I  take  my  final  glance  at  the  cheval  glass,  I  am  satisfied 
and  yet  not  satisfied.  I  look  as  well,  I  think,  as  I  can  look;  but, 
oh,  how  much  fairer  1  must  be  before  I  could  be  Avorthy  to 
please  him!  It  wants  still  ten  minutes  to  dinner-time.  Shall  I 
go  down?  He  will  not  be  there,  of  course:  he  is  always  late; 

but But  still  I  go.  He  is  there,  after  all — a  little  guilty 

blush  steals  into  my  cheeks — there,  and  alone. 

"  Fancy  my  being  ready  in  time!"  he  says,  gayly,  coming  for- 
ward. 

"  Wonders  will  never  cease,"  I  answer,  laughing  rather  con- 
strainedly. 

"  I  was  determined  everything  should  go  off  harmoniously 
this  evening,"  he  says.  "Tell  me  "(eying  me  with  some  cu- 
riosity), ' '  what  sort  of  time  have  you  had  of  it  here  ?  Has  my 
father  d d  the  servants  much,  and  visited  everybody's  short- 
comings upon  my  poor  mother  ?" 

"  Much  the  same  as  usual,"  I  reply,  in  a  half-whisper,  stealing 
a  backward  glance  over  my  shoulder,  to  make  sure  Sir  Hector  is 
not  within  earshot. 

"  Awfully  jolly  house  to  stay  in!  Jolly  is  just  the  right  word, 
isn't  it?"  he  goes  on,  seating  himself  in  front  of  me,  and  con- 
templating me  with  perfect  deliberation.  •'  I  see  that  already  a 
great  deal  of  spirit  has  gone  out  of  you:  you  have  lost  that  mis- 
chievous sparkle  in  the  eyes  you  had  at  Warrington.  I  shall 
devote  myself  to  the  agreeable  task  of  bringing  it  back.  I  feel 
ready  for  any  enormity,  if  you  will  only  back  me  up.  With 
your  help  and  countenance,  I  believe  I  am  capable  of  making  the 
old  gentleman  an  apple-pie  bed,  hiding  his  brushes,  tying  a  string 
to  the  bedclothes,  or  practicing  any  other  witty  little  joke  of  the 
kind." 

The  idea,  in  conjunction  with  the  autocrat  of  Alford,  is  so  ir- 
reverently comic,  and  he  enunciates  it  with  such  perfect  gravity, 
that  I  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  That  is  right,"  he  says  approvingly:  "  let  us  laugh  and  be 
merry  for  once.  Hector  "(with  a  wry  f  ace)  "  is  coming  back 
to-morrow.  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die.  I  sup- 
pose my  father  lapses  into  his  usual  musical  slumber  after  din- 
ner, unrestrained  by  your  presence  ?" 

"  Until  half -past  nine,"  I  answer.  "  As  the  clock  chimes,  he 
wakes  up,  and  then  we  play  chess  until  bedtime." 

"Chess!  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us!  And  has 
it  come  to  this  ?"  cries  Captain  Montagu,  so  tragically  that  I  laugh 
again.  "  Never  mind;  he  shall  go  without  to-night.  As  soon  as 
he  is  off  to  sleep,  we  will  steal  out  into  the  garden;  it  will  be  a 
heavenly  night.  I  will  smoke,  and  you  shall  talk  to  me."  And 
for  the  first  time  he  puts  on  the  languid,  caressing  voice  I  re- 
member so  well, 


DIANA     CAREW.  Ill 

"  Not  for  worlds!"  I  cry.  "  I  have  played  myself  steadily  into 
Sir  Hector's  good  graces,  and  in  one  evening  I  should  undo  the 
work  of  a  week." 

A  frown  ruffles  his  smooth  forehead. 

"  Too  bad!"  he  says.  "  Why  cannot  he  snore  on  as  usual  until 
bedtime,  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves  ?  Nevermind  "  (whispering); 
"  I  will  bring  him  out  early  from  dinner,  and  then  we  will  slip 
out.  I  have  set  my  heart"  (sruilhig) ''on  seeing  the  moon  to- 
night, and  with  you,  too." 

A  guilty  throb' of  joy  goes  through  me.  At  this  moment  the 
baronet  comes  in.  He  greets  his  younger  son  with  some  show  of 
warmth.  Even  lie,  I  can  see,  is  under  the  influence  of  that  win- 
ning face  and  manner. 

"  Charlie  in  time  for  dinner!"  he  exclaims,  blandly,  addressing 
me.  ''We  must  be  indebted  to  you  for  this,  I  think." 

"  I  have  been  doing  a  great  deal  of  duty  lately."  says  Captain 
Montagu.  "  Give  that  some  of  the  credit,  if  possible,  without  de- 
tracting from  Miss  Carew's  share  of  it." 

My  lady  comes  in  at  this  moment.  She,  too,  has  bestowed  un- 
usual care  on  her  toilet,  and  looks  like  some  rare  piece  of  deli- 
cate porcelain.  The  pale  silvery  satin  of  her  dress  shimmers 
through  the  soft  lace,  her  fingers  glitter  with  diamonds,  there  is 
a  faint  tinge  like  the  heart  of  a  shell  in  her  cheeks. 

"Mother,  you  look  positively  lovely!"  says  her  son,  going  up 
to  her.  "  I  must  kiss  you  to  see  that  you  are  real  and  have  not 
stepped  out  of  a  picture." 

As  they  stand  together,  the  delicate,  high-bred  mother,  her 
fond,  humid  eyes  turned  upward,  and  the  handsome  son,  his  face 
bent  down  to  her,  his  golden  mustache  brushing  her  cheek,  it 
seems  to  me  a  fairer  picture  than  any  I  ever  saw  fi-auied. 

"  Pshaw!"  sneers  Sir  Hector;  "  I  never  saw  such  a  fellow!  he 
must  make  love  to  his  own  mother  if  there  is  no  other  woman 
by." 

"  That  is  a  compliment  to  you,"  laughs  Charlie,  looking  at 
me. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Carew  is  Hector's  property."  says  his  father. 

His  tone  is  half  joking,  half  authoritative;  I  do  not  like  it;  the 
indignant  protest  rises  in  my  cheek;  but  at  this  moment  the 
clock  chimes,  the  gong  sounds,  and  Simkins  appears  in  the  door- 
way. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

DIANA'S    STORY. 

THE  solemn  rite  of  the  day  is  over.  Dinner  is  never  a  gregari- 
ous meal  at  Alford,  although  to-day,  thanks  to  Captain  Montagu, 
it  is  far  more  cheerful  than  usual.  I  am  longing  for  it  to  be 
over,  thinking,  with  a  certain  guilty  secret  pleasure,  of  the  stroll 
in  the  moonlight  that  is  to  come  presently.  Daylight  is  almost 
gone;  the  faint  silvery  light  is  rising  behind  the  dark  trees;  in 
half  an  hour  more  we  shall  be  out  together  in  the  dewy,  fragrant 
night.  A  feeling  almost  akin  to  fear  conies  over  me;  1  tremble 
at  what  I  am  going  to  do.  Why,  I  wonder?  If  cm  anv  of  the 


112  DIANA    CAREW. 

preceding  evenings  Hector  had  asked  me  to  go  out  with  him,  I 
should  have  gone  at  once,  without  the  shadow  of  an  arriere- 
pensee;  but  to-night  I  feel  as  if  I  were  about  to  commit  a  great 
indiscretion.  Nevertheless,  I  mean  to  commit  it,  if  the  Fates  are 
propitious,  Captain  Montagu,  holding  the  door  open  for  us, 
whispers  softly,  as  I  pass,  "  Remember!" 

"  Remember!"  As  if  there  was  the  very  smallest,  faintest 
chance  of  my  forgetting!  I  take  a  book  into  my  favorite  corner; 
but  I  cannot  read;  every  moment  I  glance  nervously  at  the 
clock  which  ticks  so  slowly  to-night.  Lady  Montagu  is  unusually 
wakeful;  she  even  takes  a  book.  I  give  myself  up  miserably  to 
disappointment — this  half-hour  that  I  have  longed  for  as  I  have 
never  longed  for  anything  in  my  life  before.  Tears  are  rising  in 
my  eyes;  I  feel  my  mouth  quivering.  To  hide  my  face  I  put  my 
book  before  it,  and  then  I  say  dismally  to  myself,  "  It  is  not  to 
be!"  A  soft  thud  rouses  me.  I  glance  from  behind  my  screen. 
The  book  has  fallen  from  Lady  Montagu's  hands;  her  head  is 
leaning  gently  back,  her  eyes  are  closed,  and  there  is  hope  again. 
It  is  twenty  minutes  since  we  left  the  dinner  -table ;  the  door 
opens,  and  the  gentlemen  appear. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  so  easy  a  victory  to-night,  I 
promise  you,"  says  Sir  Hector,  approaching  me,  for  I  am  obliged 
to  win  a  game  occasionally,  in  order  not  to  betray  my  tactics. 

I  smile  as  pleasantly  as  I  can,  and  make  some  answering  re- 
mark, and  he  goes  to  his  accustomed  chair. 

Captain  Montagu  comes  up  to  me  and  whispers: 

"  I  am  going  now.  I  will  wait  for  you  at  the  front  door.  Do 
not  be  long." 

He  is  gone,  and  I  am  holding  my  breath  to  listen  to  the  first 
incipient  snore  that  is  to  bring  my  release.  Oh,  blessed  sound  I 
welcomer  to-night  than  the  sweetest  melody  ever  composed  by 
Rossini  or  Mozart.  If  I  had  not  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  clock, 
I  should  believe  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  before  my  anxious  ear 
caught  the  sound;  but  when  it  comes,  the  dial  shows  it  to  be  four 
minutes  exactly.  I  wait  another  minute,  until  it  has  settled  into 
a  regular  prolonged  snore,  and  then,  softly,  tremblingly,  on  tip- 
toe I  creep  toward  the  door,  as  Jack  of  the  Beanstalk  did  when 
he  went  to  carry  off  the  giant's  harp.  Once  safely  outside  the 
door,  I  fly  along  the  corridor  to  the  front  door.  I  can  hear  the 
beats  of  my  heart  as  I  stand  looking  out.  A  slow  step  crunches 
the  gravel.  In  another  moment  he  sees  me,  and  quickens  his 
pace. 

"  But,"  he  says,  looking  at  me,  "  you  must  have  something 
more  on.  Remember  it  is  only  May,  although  it  is  so  warm." 
And,  coming  in,  he  takes  his  mother's  black  lace  shawl  from  a 

§eg  and  puts  it  round  me.     He  does  it  so  gently,  without  ruf- 
ing  a  single  hair,  and  I  think  to  myself,  with  a  sort  of  pang, 
that  he  must  have  had  plenty  of  practice. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  smoking,  do  you  ?"  he  asks. 
As  if  I  minded  anything  that  gave  him  pleasure! 
The  moon  is  shining  out  full  now,  transmuting  everything  she 
looks  upon  to  silver;  her  fair  face  is  mirrored  in  the  dark  water, 


DIANA    CAREW.  113 

and  lingeringly,  Narcissus-like,  she  seems  to  dwell  on  her  own 
loveliness. 

"  After  all,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  breaking  silence  at  last,  as 
we  pace  together  under  the  broad  trees,  through  which  the  sil- 
ver light  is  trickling — "  after  all,  the  country  is  very  pleasant, 
especially  ''  (with  a  low  laugh)  "  when  one  has  a  charming  com- 
panion—and a  good  cigar.  Under  present  circumstances,  I  think 
I  could  exist  here  a  long  time." 

I  do  not  make  any  reply,  for  no  appropriate  answer  occurs  to 
me  at  the  moment. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  it  won't  last  very  long,"  he  continues, 
with  an  accent  of  discontent.  "  Somehow,  pleasant  things  never 
do.  Hector  will  be  here  to-morrow.  Tell  me "  (stopping  and 
looking  down  at  me  inquisitively),  •'  what  did  my  father  mean 
when  he  said  you  were  Hector's  property  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  he  meant,"  I  exclaim,  the  eager  crimson 
mounting  to  my  cheek,  "  unless  it  was  that  he  was  the  means  of 
of  my  being  here,  which,"  I  add,  reluctantly,  "  of  course  he 
was." 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  he  says,  in  a  pleasantly  authoritative 
voice,  pointing  to  a  seat  under  a  big  tree;  and  I,  nothing  loath, 
obey. 

"  He  will  be  very  angry  when  he  comes  back  to-morrow  and 
finds  me  here,"  he  remarks,  thoughtfully,  as,  leaning  back,  he 
brings  the  full  light  of  his  handsome  eyes  upon  my  face,  in 
which  I  am  painfully  conscious  the  color  is  shifting  uneasily. 
"  He  is  as  jealous  as  Othello.  But,  upon  my  soul,  I  did  not 
know  you  were  here.  If  I  had,  I  do  not  think  I  should  have 
come." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  say,  with  some  indignation. 

"  I  do  not,  really,"  he  repeats,  in  his  most  lazy,  most  caress- 
ing tone,  ignoring  utterly  my  displeasure.  "  You  know  I  never 
can  be  ten  minutes  alone  with  a  protty  woman  without  wanting 
to  make  love  to  her.  I  feel  it  creeping  over  me  now ;  and  I  don't 
think  it  would  be  right  toward  Hector." 

For  the  life  of  me,  I  cannot  help  laughing — there  is  something 
so  naive  about  his  confession,  and  the  way  he  makes  it. 

"  You  should't  laugh  at  a  fellow  when  he  is  battling  with  his 
•weakness  and  his  scruples,"  he  utters  with  an  air  of  comic  re- 
proach. "  You  see,  to  me  it  is  an  every -day  occurrence  to  fall 
in  love,  but  it's  a  tremendous  affair  for  Hector." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  exclaim,  impatiently,  feel- 
ing also  a  little  mortified,  and  rather  inclined  to  wish  I  had  not 
come  out.  "  Sir  Hector  will  be  waking  up  soon,  and  I  must  go 
and  set  the  chessmen." 

"  Do  not  go,"  he  says,  laying  a  detaining  hand  on  my  arm; 
"  it  is  so  delicious  here,  and  I  should  be  so  dull  if  you  were  to 
leave  me.  I  should  begin  to  hate  the  country,  and  to  wish  I 
had  not  come  immediately."  (Then,  irrelevantly)  "Always 
wear  crimson  flowers  in  your  hair;  you  can't  think  how  well 
they  become  you." 

There  is  a  pause.  He  is  silent,  and  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to 
speak.  I  am  thinking  with  some  bitterness  how  eagerly  I  looked 


114  DIANA    CAREW. 

forward  to  this  half  hour  with  him,  and  how  little  enjoyment  I 
am  deriving  from  it.  Presently  he  throws  away  the  end  of  his 
cigar,  and  moves  nearer  to  me." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,"  he  says  softly.  "I  know  I 
have  no  right  to;  indeed,  I  think  it  is  very  bad  taste  on  my  part; 
but  I  am  an  inquisitive  fellow,  and  have  been  rather  spoiled. 
Tell  me  "  (taking  my  hand  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  mine),  "  is  there 
any  chance  of  your  ever  becoming  my  sister  ?  I  always  wanted 
a  little  sister  awfully.  Don't  look  angry  "  (reading  the  indignant 
flush  on  my  face).  "I  know  Hector  is  in  love  with  you.  I 
know  he  wants  to  marry  you;  my  mother  told  me  as  much;  he 
will  tell  you  himself  very  soon,  if  he  has  not  done  so  already; 
and  what"  (rather  eagerly) — "  what  shall  you  say?" 

An  undefined  sense  of  pain  steals  across  me  as  I  withdraw  my 
hand  from  his. 

"Until  he  tells  me  so,"  I  answer,  drawing  myself  up  coldly, 
"  I  think  it  is  quite  superfluous  for  me  or  any  one  else  to  specu- 
late on  my  reply." 

And,  drawing  my  skirts  away  from  him,  I  rise  to  go.  He 
springs  up  and  stands  in  my  path. 

"  No,"  he  says  hurriedly,  "upon  my  soul  you  shall  not  go  away 
angry  with  me.'' 

He  looks  so  handsome,  standing  before  me  with  a  slight  flush 
on  his  face  and  an  eager  look  in  his  eyes — who  could  be  angry 
with  him  ?  I  smile. 

"  I  am  not  angry,"  I  say;  "  but  I  do  not  think  you  should  have 
asked  me,  on  your  brother's  account  even  more  than  on  mine, 

You  are  quite  mistaken.     We  are  very  good  friends,  but " 

'But  what?" 

'  Nothing  more." 
'  Nothing  more  ?" 
'  Nor  likely  to  be." 

'Nor  likely  to  be? 

"I  wish,"  he  begins  eagerly,  then  checks  himself  and  says,  al- 
most coldly,  "  Hector  is  a  good  fellow;  he  is  very  fond  of  you, 
and  Alf ord  is  not  a  bad  place  to  be  mistress  of,  is  it  ?" 

The  stable  clock  strikes  ten. 

"Oh!"  I  cry,  terrified,  "what  will  Sir  Hector  say?  Do  pray 
come  in  with  me!" 

"  I  had  much  better  not,  for  your  sake,"  he  answers.  "  If  we 
go  in  together,  they  will  know  we  have  been  out  together.  You 
may  have  been  in  your  own  room — anywhere.  I  suppose,  tyrant 
as  he  is,  he  cannot  expect  his  guests  to  sit  in  his  drawing-room 
all  the  evening  to  listen  to  his  snores." 

I  sneak  in,  feeling  terribly  guilty.  After  all,  how  little  pleas- 
ure I  have  had  out  of  that  stroll,  which  I  looked  forward  to  with 
such  delight!  For  once  Fortune  favors  me.  Sir  Hector  is  still 
asleep,  and  only  wakes  up  as  I  enter. 

"  Bless  my  soul!"  he  cries,  jumping  up  with  alacrity;  "  why,  I 
am  twenty-two  minutes  over  my  time.  Why  did  you  not  awake 
me?" 

Ten  minutes  later,  Captain  Montn  nv  walks  in,  looking  radiantly 


DIAXA    CAREW.  US 

unconscious,  and,  sitting  down  beside  his  mother,  begins  a  whis- 
pered conversation. 

"  It  is  utterly  impossible,''  says  Sir  Hector,  irritably,  "  to  con- 
centrate one's  tnind  on  the  game  whilst  you  and  your  son  are 
chattering  like  a  couple  of  magpies,  my  lady." 

"  Let  us  go  to  your  boudoir,  mother,"  I  hear  Captain  Montagu 
whisper;  "and  rising,  they  go  out,  leaving  us  at  our  dreary 
game.  It  requires  no  great  effort  of  genius  on  Sir  Hector's  part 
to  checkmate  me  to-night.  He  wins  three  games  honestly  in 
half  an  hour. 

"  Not  at  all  your  usual  form,"  he  remarks.  "  I  suppose  "  (jo- 
cosely) "  your  thoughts  are  a  long  way  off  to-night — eh?"  and  I 
feel  vexed  in  my  soul. 

The  family  have  evidently  apportioned  me  to  Hector,  and  do  not 
seem  for  an  instant  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  my  not  ac- 
quiescing in  it. 

After  his  third  triumph  Sir  Hector  is  good  enough  to  let  me  go. 
I  wish  him  good-night,  and  go  slowly  and  not  very  cheerfully  to 
my  room.  Under  any  other  circumstances  I  should  have  gone 
to  her  boudoir  to  wish  Lady  Montagu  good-night;  but  now  I  can- 
not. I  do  not  choose  her  son  to  think  I  am  running  after  him. 
Lingeringly  I  pass  the  door  with  a  faint  hope  that  it  may  open; 
but  they  are  talking.  I  catch  the  smothered  sound  of  their 
voices;  they  do  not  hear  me  pass,  and  I  go  on  my  lonely  way. 

"  I  wish  he  had  not  come,"  I  say,  petulantly,  to  myself,  as  I 
put  my  candle  down  on  the  dressing-table  and  throw  myself 
into  the  big  arm-chair  beside  it.  "  I  was  much  happier  before. 
This  is  the  end  of  my  eager  anticipation  and  delight  in  his  com- 
ing! Of  course  I  am  nothing  to  him;  did  I  not  tell  myself  so 
all  along?  And  yet — and  yet "  (unbidden  tears  rising) — "he 
need  not  have  said  that  about  falling  in  love  being  an  every -day 
occurrence  with  him,  and  about  his  never  being  ten  minutes  alone 
with  a  woman  without  wanting  to  make  love  to  her.  Is  it  pos- 
sible" (and  I  blush  to  the  very  heart  at  the  bare  thought)  "  that 
I  have  betrayed  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  his  society,  and  that  he 
thought  it  necessary  to  give  me  a  friendly  warning?"  For  a 
moment  I  almost  hate  him.  Hector  is  not  so  handsome,  but 
he  is  much  nicer,  I  say:  but  all  the  same,  though  I  asseverate  it 
strongly,  I  do  not  believe  myself.  Then  I  begin  to  think  un- 
easily of  what  he  has  said  about  Hector  wanting  to  marry  me. 
It  is  not  true;  I  do  not  believe  it;  but  if  it  were  true,  he  had  no 
right  to  speak  to  me  about  it.  I  marry  Hector!— no,  no,  no!  I 
cry  to  myself,  hotly.  He  is  very  kind  and  good — I  admire  and 
respect  him;  but  to  marry  him— never! 

I  awake  in  the  morning  with  the  same  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment; it  is  going  to  be  a  lovely  day  again,  but  somehow  I  do 
not  feel  the  same  appreciation  of  its  beauties  that  I  did  yester- 
day. 

Sir  Hector  and  I  sit  down  to  breakfast  together.  Of  course  I 
knew  perfectly  well  that  Captain  Montagu  would  not  be  down; 
so  it  is  rather  unreasonable  of  me  to  feel  so  chagrined  at  seeing 
his  empty  place.  Breakfast  is  only  half  over,  however,  when 
the  door  opens,  and  he  comes  in,  looking  as  fresh,  as  crisp,  as 


116  DIANA    CAREW. 

clean  as  only  an  Englishman  can  look  (this  is  naturally  an  opia 
ion  derived  from  a  later  experience). 

"  What?"  says  his  father,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork  and 
looking  utterly  amazed. 

"  '  Stood  still  to  eaze, 
And,  gazing,  blessed  the  scene,'  " 

laughs  Captain  Montagu,  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  and  walking 
to  the  sideboard  to  make  a  selection  among  the  viands  displayed, 
"  This  is  one  of  the  '  queer  things  of  the  service,'  eh,  sir — my  ap- 
pearing in  the  early  dawn  before  the  dew  is  off  the  grass.  Alii 
owing  to  Miss  Carew's  charms." 

"Wait  a  bit;  wait  a  bit,"  says  the  baronet,  smiling  grimly. 
"I  doubt  very  much  whether  you  will  turn  up  this  time  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,"  remarks  Captain  Montagu, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes,  as  he  comes  and  seats  himself 
on  my  left  hand.  "  A  propos,  sir,  how  do  the  hay  crops  promise 
this  year  ?" 

"  Devilish  bad!  devilish  bad!"  growls  Sir  Hector.  "  This  con- 
founded weather  is  burning  it  all  up;  we  have  hardly  had  a  drop 
of  rain  these  two  months." 

I  glance  furtively  at  my  neighbor  from  behind  the  big  silver 
urn;  he  is  busy  with  his  breakfast,  and  I  can  take  in  every  de- 
tail of  his  appearance  without  being  detected.  How  handsome 
he  is!  Men  always  say  it  is  quite  immaterial  what  a  man  is  like, 
provided  he  looks  like  a  gentleman.  I  don't  believe  they  think 
it,  though.  The  good-looking  ones  say  so  in  order  not  to  look 
conscious  or  conceited,  and  the  plain  ones  for  reasons  too  obvious 
to  need  explanation.  My  eyes  linger  on  his  short,  crisp,  gold- 
brown  hair,  that  would  curl  if  it  were  long  enough  (I  wish  men 
had  not  such  a  mania  for  being  cropped);  his  white,  smooth  fore- 
head and  sun-bronzed  cheeks,  the  straight  brows,  Greek  nose, 
and  curved  lips,  shaded  by  a  soft  golden  mustache.  Nothing  es- 
capes me,  not  even  the  pattern  of  his  shooting-coat,  the  snowy 
shirt  striped  with  blue,  the  thick  gold  rings  on  his  shapely  hands, 
the  exquisite  perfection  of  his  filbert  nails.  I  dare  say  it  sounds 
very  silly  to  chronicle  such  things,  but  these  minutiae  do  make  a 
difference  in  a  woman's  estimate  of  a  man,  however  small  it  may 
make  one  look  to  own  it.  Sir  Hector  has  a  little  way  of  stalking 
out  from  breakfast  the  very  second  he  has  finished,  quite  un- 
mindful of  the  state  of  progress  to  which  any  one  else  has  ar- 
rived. Upon  this  occasion  I  am  rather  disposed  to  bless  that 
little  way  as  the  door  slams  behind  him. 

"  What  a  jolly  thing  it  must  be,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  glanc- 
ing at  me  with  eyes  brimful  of  laughter,  "to  be  untrammeled  by 
any  sense  of  decency  or  civility!  By  Jove!  I  can't  stand  this 
any  longer."  And  jumping  up  before  I  know  what  he  is  about, 
he  lifts  the  gigantic  urn  and  moves  it  from  between  us.  "  Fam- 
ily plate  is  respectable"  (resuming  his  seat),  "but  in  this  in- 
stance decidedly  in  the  way.  Now  "  (suiting  the  action  to  the 
word)  "I  can  look  at  you.  I  like  to  feast  all  niy  senses  at 
once." 


DIAXA    CAREW.  117 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
DIANA'S    STORY. 

"  DID  you  ever  hear  of  Rosherville  ?"  asks  Captain  Montagu. 

"  No,"  I  answer,  rather  wondering  at  his  irrelevancy. 

"Rosherville,"  he  proceeds,  in  an  explanatory  tone,  "is  'the 
place  to  spend  a  happy  day.'  If  you  had  ever  been  to  London 
you  would  have  seen  that  fact  advertised  conspicuously  in  a 
great  number  of  prominent  situations.  It  is  a  place  to  which 
the  lower  orders  resort  by  steamboat  in  the  dog-days,  and  where 
they  enjoy  a  singular  variety  of  amusements  and  a  singular 
want  of  variety  of  food.  Now,  although,"  he  proceeds  (still  as 
if  he  were  reading  from.  Murray's  hand-book)  "  although  in  this, 
as  in  every  other  respect,  Rosherville  and  Alford  are  two  places 
about  as  unlike  each  other  as  one  could  possibly  pitch  upon,  I 
intend  the  eifect  produced  by  both  to  be  identical;  in  short,  I 
mean  to  spend  a  happy  day;  will  you  help  me?'' 

"That  I  will,"  I  say,  still  smiling  at  his  tirade;  then  relaps- 
ing into  gravity,  I  add,  rather  wistfully,  "it  is  so  nice  to  be 
happy." 

"  A  proposition  too  obvious  to  be  contradicted,"  he  laughs. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  ask. 

"  What  am  /  going  to  do?  Positively,  literally  nothing;  it  is 
to  be  one  unclouded  day  offarniente  for  me.  It  is  to  you  I  look 
for  the  happy  day." 

"  And  what  am  I  to  do?"  I  ask,  feeling  very  proud  and  glad. 

"  First,  you  are  to  repair  to  the  small  drawing-room,  where, 
when  I  have  finished  this  "  (taking  from  his  case  a  cigarette),  "  I 
shall  join  you.  You  will  then  sing  to  me  the  songs  that  rny  soul 
loveth  (I  see  your  store  has  greatly  increased  since  the  winter), 
until  you  are  quite  tired." 

"  Or  you  are,"  I  suggest,  with  a  smile. 

"Until  you  are  quite  tired,"  he  repeats.  "Then— then  we 
will  go  and  bask  in  the  sunshine,  and  watch  the  carp  jump,  and 
hear  the  birds  sing:  and  if  we  feel  inclined  we  will  talk,  and  if 
not,  we  will  be  silent.  We  won't  argue;  we  won't  have  a  single 
word  but  what  is  sweet  and  harmonious.  If  I  choose  to  tell  you 
pleasant  truths,  you  shall  not  contradict  me;  and  as  for  Hector" 
(gayly),  "  Hector  shall  not  exist  for  you  and  me  the  whole  live- 
long day  until  dinner-time." 

I  go  as  he  has  bidden  me  to  the  drawing-room  and  look  out  all 
my  prettiest  songs,  thinking  a  little  remorsefully  the  while  that 
it  is  to  his  brother  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  them.  I  lay  them 
one  by  one  on  the  desk,  "  Golden  Days"  on  the  top. 

"  Now,"  he  says,  coming  in  and  preparing  himself  the  coziest 
chair  in  the  room,  as  he  did  once  on  a  previous  occasion.  "  By 
the  way,  do  I  remind  you"  (with  smiling  eyes),  "  of  my  father? 
It  just  struck  me  that  I  had  been  laying  down  the  law  a  little 
bit  in  his  style.  Family  likeness  will  crop  up  in  odd  ways. 
A  propos  of  that,  is  not  Hector  a  most  wonderful  counterpart  of 
the  old  gentleman ':" 

"  No,"  I  say,  turning  myself  round  on  the  music-stool,  resolved 


118  DIANA    CAREW. 

to  be  just  toward  him  in  his  absence,  all  the  more  because  I  am 
guiltily  glad  of  it.  "I  do  not  think  he  is  at  all,  really." 

"  All  right "  (languidly).  "  You  remember  the  compact.  No 
arguing  allowed.  Upon  my  soul"  (his  lips  curving  with  a  suspi- 
cion of  merriment),  "I  never  saw  two  people  more  dissimilar, 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  The  only  wonder  is  how  they  ever 
came  to  be  father  and  son." 

I  cannot  help  laughing. 

"  Hush!"  I  say.     "  I  ana  going  to  begin." 

"What  is  it  to  be?" 

"  '  Golden  Days.'  " 

"  'Golden  Days!'  By  Jove!"  (jumping  up)  "the  very  song  of 
all  others  I  love.  And  what  a  happy  thought  for  to-day,  too! 
'  Once  in  the  days  of  golden  weather.'  This "  (stooping  over 
me)  "shall  be  a  golden  day,  shall  it  not?" 

Our  eyes  meet,  a  tremulous  thrill  of  pleasure  creeps  through 
me,  then  he  turns  away  abruptly  and  resumes  his  seat.  I  sing 
on  and  on,  and  he  listens  with  closed  eyes,  as  he  did  that  day  at 
Warrington. 

"  I  am  tired,"  I  say,  at  last,  getting  off  my  stool. 

"Are  you?"  (jumping  up).  "What  a  selfish  brute  I  am! 
How  shall  I  thank  you!"  (taking  my  hand  and  kissing  it  in  his 
own  gracious,  caressing  manner).  "  The  first  hour  of  the 
golden  day  is  gone"  (regretfully);  "  how  it  has  flown!" 

"  Lady  Montagu  will  be  coming  down  soon  now,"  I  suggest. 

"  Poor  mother!  I  did  not  tell  you  before:  1  thought  it  would 
take  the  heart  out  of  your  singing.  She  has  one  of  her  fright- 
ful headaches:  while  they  last  she  cannot  raise  her  head  from 
the  pillow  nor  bear  the  sound  of  a  voice." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before?"  I  cry,  remorsefully, 
"  Perhaps  she  may  have  been  disturbed  by  my  singing.'' 

"  Quite  impossible,  I  assure  you .  Why  "  (reproachfully),  "  you 
don't  think  I'm  such  a  brute  as  to  run  the  risk  of  making  her 
worse  for  my  own  selfish  gratification,  do  you  ?" 

I  utter  a  hasty  dissent. 

"  Get  your  hat  and  let  us  go  out."  And  T  obey  silently,  as  I 
did  in  the  matter  of  the  music.  "  I  have  had  two  comfortable 
chairs  taken  out,"  he  tells  me,  as  I  join  him  in  the  hall.  "  I 
abhor  the  abominations  called  garden-seats.  They  don't  in  the 
least  give  to  the  gentle  undulations  of  the  figure  in  repose.  I 
have  selected  a  charming  spot  near  the  water,  and  we  will  be 
tranquilly  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  moment,  like  the  lotos- 
eaters." 

We  stroll  gently  along  until  we  come  to  a  big  chestnut,  under 
which  stand  two  inviting  chairs. 

1  feel  as  blithe  as  a  bird  this  morning.  All  doubt  and  disap- 
pointment have  vanished  from  my  heart,  like  last  night's  dew 
before  the  sun.  Life  is  once  again  a  God-given  gift,  to  be  made 
the  most  of  this  fair  day.  For  a  little  while  we  are  both  silent, 
whilst  we  drink  in  lovingly  the  morning's  beauty.  The  warm 
west  wind  breathes  tenderly  through  the  branches,  wafting  to- 
ward us  the  heavy  scent  of  the  sweet  spring  blossoms.  Way- 
ward zephyrs  play  hide-and-seek  among  the  cool  green  leaves, 


DIANA    CAREW.  lid 

that,  swaying  two  and  fro,  fan  our  faces  softly.  A  whole  army 
of  big  bees,  in  their  handsome  black  and  orange  velvet  coats, 
are  dipping  into  the  pink  hearts  of  the  chestnut-blossoms,  and 
booming  their  deep  sonorous  content  in  a  melodious  ear-lulling 
chorus.  On  one  side  the  view  stretches  over  a  great  expanse, 
half  park,  half  meadow-land,  all  golden-yellow  with  buttercups, 
save  where  here  and  there  thick-strewn  daisies  make  a  galaxy 
across  their  green  heaven.  Clumps  of  trees  of  exquisitely -blended 
shades  are  dotted  about,  and  afar  off  is  the  long  belt  that  skirts 
the  park,  rich  with  every  subtle  tint  of  spring,  the  pale,  soft, 
tender  green  of  budding  elm  and  oak,  the  chestnut's  full  rich 
verdure,  the  somber  fir,  and  here  and  there,  scattered  between, 
the  bronze  of  the  copper  beech. 

In  front  of  us  is  the  mimic  lake,  on  which  a  flotilla  of  white 
ducks  is  sailing,  looking  a  little  bit  like  small  swans,  but  lacking 
the  grace  and  dignity  of  those  majestic  birds.  I  am  feeling 
rather  sentimental;  the  warm  air,  the  heavy  odors  wafted  toward 
us  from  yon  flaming  sea  of  amber  azalea,  the  deep  booming  of 
the  bees  above  our  heads— all  these  things  have  an  enervating, 
luxurious  effect  upon  my  senses.  I  glance  furtively  at  my 
companion,  to  see  if  he  shares  my  feelings.  He  is  reclining 
luxuriously  in  the  low,  long  chair;  his  hat  has  fallen  off  back- 
ward on  the  grass,  and  the  little  sunbeams  are  glinting  in  through 
the  broad  leaves,  making  golden  streaks  across  his  hair.  Through 
half-closed  eyelids  he  is  looking  sleepily  at  the  water;  his  face 
wears  a  pensive  look;  yes,  he,  like  me,  feels  the  warm,  sensuous 
effect  of  this  May  morning.  He  is  about  to  speak;  if  he 
breaks  this  golden  silence,  it  must  surely  be  with  some  poetic 
thought. 

"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  at  this  moment  for  a  pea-shooter 
and  a  bag  of  peas,  to  aim  at  those  ducks  standing  on  their  heads. 
How  surprised  they  would  be!" 

This  is  the  sentimental  remark  for  which  his  lips  unclose.  My 
romance  is  swept  away.  I  laugh.  Now  he  mentions  it,  there  is 
certainly  something  very  tempting  about  their  position,  as  they 
stand  literally  upon  their  heads,  in  quest  of  hidden  treasures. 
"We  amuse  ourselves  by  watching  them,  until  they  scramble 
awkwardly  up  on  the  bank,  and  spread  themselves  out  for  a  nap 
in  the  sunshine. 

"  By  Jove!"  exclaims  my  companion,  as  a  monstrous  carp  flings 
a  somersault  out  of  the  water,  and  splashes  back  with  as  much 
noise  as  a  retriever  plunging  in  off  the  bank,  "the  fish  seem 
pretty  lively  this  morning.  There  goes  another!" 

There  is  a  great  swirling,  and  plashing,  and  bubbling  among 
the  lily  leaves.  Now  and  then  we  see  gleaming  golden  sides 
tossing  above  the  water,  as  the  big  fish  dart  through  the  glassy 
water  in  hot  pursuit  of  each  other. 

Captain  Montagu  signals  a  passing  gardener.  "  Bring  me  a 
landing-net,  will  you  ?"  he  says. 

The  man  hurries  off,  and  presently  returns  with  one. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  fish,"  remarks  my  companion,  rising, 
and  walking  cautiously  toward  the  bank.  A  moment  later,  he 


120  DIANA    CAREW. 

plunges  it  in,  and  brings  it  out  again  with  three  monstrous 
shining  fish  struggling  in  it. 

"  Fishing  made  easy!"  he  says,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  put  them  back!"  I  cry,  eagerly,  as  he  lays  them  panting 
on  the  bank;  "do  put  them  back:  they  are  not  good  to  eat. 
Don't  let  the  poor  things  die  out  here!" 

"  What  a  tender-hearted  little  soul  it  is!"  he  says,  looking 
amused,  "Now"  (contemplating  them),  "if  our  cordon  bleu 
here  had  only  one  of  the  receipt?  for  dressing  them  that  those 
old  monks  possessed,  I  could  not  possibly  grant  your  prayer, 
being  a  tremendous  gourmet;  but " 

"  Let  them  be  happy  '  this  golden  day,'"  I  plead  looking  up  at 
him. 

"  Here  goes!"  he  says,  flinging  them  back  with  a  great  souse; 
and  they  dart  off,  apparently  fully  aware  what  a  narrow  escape 
they  have  had.  "  I  can't  help  thinking,"  he  remarks,  reflect- 
ively, "  that  in  those  days  when  carp  were  esteemed  such  a  deli- 
cacy, they  could  not  get  salmon  or  mullet." 

"  I  never  tasted  one,"  I  say. 

"  Take  the  advice  Punch  once  gave  to  intending  Benedicts: 
'Don't.'" 

We  have  resumed  our  comfortable  chairs  under  the  chestnut- 
boughs.  I  suddenly  bethink  myself  that  I  have  omitted  to 
thank  him  for  his  munificent  donation  to  my  poor  people  last 
winter, 

"I  am  afraid,"  I  begin,  rather  uneasily,  "you  must  have 
thought  me  very  ungrateful  for  not  thanking  you  for  the  ten 
pounds  you  sent  me.  You  don't  know  what  good  it  did,  and 
how  the  people  thanked  and  blessed  you." 

I  blurt  my  words  out  hurriedly  and  eagerly,  whilst  he  regards 
me  with  an  expression  of  comic  terror. 

"  You  are  positively  becoming  excited,"  he  says.  "  Have  you 
forgotten  there  is  to  be  no  emotion  this  morning — nothing  but 
the  most  perfect  tranquillity  V 

"  You  may  try  and  turn  it  off,"  I  say,  warmly,  "  but  I  shall 
tell  you  all  the  same.  I  think  it  is  very  selfish  for  people  to  do 
kind  actions,  and  then  refuse  to  be  thanked  for  them." 

"  '  People '  means  me,  I  suppose  T  he  utters,  lazily.  "  Go  on  " 
(with  an  air  of  resignation);  "tell  me  all  about  it — how  many 
night-caps  and  flannel  petticoats  you  bought  for  the  old  women, 
and  what  you  laid  out  on  snuff  and  tobacco  for  the  old  men." 

"Do  be  serious,"  I  say,  reproachfully.  "If  you  could  only 
dream  the  good  it  really  didl  I  should  like  to  tell  you  one  case. 
Poor  Atkins  had  been  out  of  work  for  weeks  from  hurting  his 
hand;  two  of  the  children  had  scarlet  fever;  and  they  had  not  a 
morsel  of  food  in  the  house,  when " 

"  Don't  harrow  up  my  feelings!"  he  interrupts,  imploringly, 
taking  out  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  It  is  too  bad  of  you  to  laugh  at  me,"  I  cry,  feeling  vexed. 

"  A  change  of  air  and  scene  will  be  good  for  us  both,"  he  says, 
rising  promptly,  and  stretching  out  a  hand  to  me.  "  Come,  and 
I  will  take  you  into  the  wood." 

I  follow  him  as  he  bids  me,  and  say  no  more  about  the  money. 


DIANA    CAREW.  121 

We  stroll  along  past  the  fir-trees  and  out  through  a  gate  into  the 
wood.  Suddenly  we  pause  as  we  come  to  a  great  open  space. 
There,  spread  like  a  carpet  from  some  cunning  loom,  grows  a 
great  sea  of  primroses,  of  wood-violets  and  dark  hyacinths  min- 
gled with  rich  emerald  green. 

''  Groves  that  looked  a  paradise 

Of  blossom,  and  sheets  of  hyacinth 

That  seemed  the  heavens,  upbreaking  through  the  earth." 

He  points  to  a  felled  tree,  and  we  sit  down  and  let  our  eyes 
range  feastingly  around. 

"  After  all,"  says  my  companion,  thoughtfully,  with  an  air  of 
conviction,  "  the  country  has  its  pleasures  even  out  of  the  hunting 
and  shooting  seasons.  Do  you  know  "  (solemnly,  looking  at  me 
impressively,  as  though  he  is  not  sure  I  shall  believe  him  with- 
out a  great  deal  of  asseveration),  "  I  do  not  think  I  ever  spent  a 
happier  morning  than  this  in  my  life?'' 

"  I  am  sure  I  never  did,'1  I  say,  truthfully,  but  sighing  a  little 
as  I  remember  how  short-lived  our  happiness  is  doomed  to  be.  I 
fancy  I  hear  him  sigh  too  He  takes  out  his  watch. 

"  It  is  half  past  twelve,''  he  remarks,  with  an  recent  of  disgust, 
"  and  they  lunch  at  one.  How  the  time  has  flown!" 

Silence  reigns  for  a  few  minutes,  then  he  stretches  out  his 
hand  toward  me.  and  brings  the  full  light  of  his  dark-blue  eyes 
to  bear  on  mine.  I  endure  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  mine 
droop,  but  my  hand  still  lies  in  the  clasp  of  his.  I  feel  no 
strength  or  will  to  move  it. 

"I  told  you,"  he  says,  presently,  "that  we  were  not  to  have 
any  explanations  to-day,  did  I  not?  nothing  but  harmonious 
tranquillity.  I  ought  not  to  break  my  own  rules,  ought  I  ?  But 
tell  me ''  (in  a  pleading  voice),  "  you  are  not  angry  with  me  now. 
If  I  vexed  you  last  night,  you  have  forgiven  me,  have  you  not  ?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  I  answer,  trying  to  withdraw 
my  hand,  and  vexed  because  I  feel  the  tell-tale  color  mantling 
over  cheek  and  brow. 

"  If  you  forgive  me,  you  will  let  me  keep  your  hand,"  he  says, 
softly:  and  all  this  time  I  feel  that  he  has  never  once  taken  his 
eyes  from  my  face.  It  is  dangerous  to  look  at  him,  my  heart  is 
throbbing  wildly  even  now;  but  I  cannot  resist  the  charm,  some 
unknown  force  compels  my  reluctant  eyelids  upward. 

"  '  Tears  in  the  radiant  eyes,"  "  he  whispers,  quoting  from  our 
favorite  song.  "  Oh!"  (drawing  me  toward  him),  "  what  a  per- 
verse world  this  is!  Why  do  we  always  covet  just  those  things 
we  cannot  have!" 

There  is  a  strange  ring  in  his  voice;  he  lias  risen,  and  is  stand- 
ing with  one  arm  around  me.  For  one  ecstatic  moment  I  droop 
my  head  on  his  shoulder,  his  warm  breath  hovers  over  my  cheek 
and  ear;  then  I  break  away  from  him,  and  stand  abashed, 
trembling,  leaning  with  downcast  eyes  against  the  trunk  of  a  big 
tree.  He  follows  me  swiftly,  with  flushed  face  and  eager  eyes. 

•'  No,  no/'  I  say,  putting  out  my  hands  with  a  gesture  of  re- 
pulsion, whilst  my  heart  beats  with  furious  shame. 

He  stops. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,''  he  utters,  in  a  contrite  voice.    "  Don't 


122  DIANA    CAREW. 

be  afraid!  you  do  not  think  for  one  moment  I  would  say  or  do 
anything  to  displease  you.  I  lost  my  head  a  little  for  a  moment. 
Uome.  let  us  go  toward  the  house."  * 

We  walk  on  side  by  side  until  we  come  to  the  gate  that  sepa- 
rates the  wood  from  the  park:  there  he  stops. 

"  I  don't  know  what  possessed  me,"  he  says,  in  an  apologetic 
tone;  "  I  suppose  it  is  rather  dangerous  being  long  with  a  young 
and  very  pretty  woman.  Do  you  know,"  looking  at  me  with 
some  vexation,  "  I  am  half  sorry  I  came  ?  If  I  stay  much  longer 
I  shall  run  the  risk  of  making  a  fool  of  myself,  and  that  would 
be  unsatisfactory  to  myself,  as  well  as  unfair  to  Hector." 

1  stand  staring  stupidly  before  me,  ignorant  how  to  reply. 
Hector!  Hector!  why  will  he  always  drag  him  into  our  talk? 
Hector  is  nothing  to  me!  I  feel  a  blind,  unjust  repugnance  to 
him.  And  yet  I  cannot  tell  his  brother  this!  it  might  make  him. 
think  I  entertained  hopes— what  folly!  has  he  not  shown  me 
clearly  enough  that  I  can  be  nothing  to  him  more  than  a  passing 
fancy  ?  Seeing  that  I  make  no  reply,  he  opens  the  gate  for  me, 
and  we  pass  on  silently  to  the  house.  Half  the  golden  day  is 
gone:  is  it  golden  still?  I  hardly  know — at  this  moment  it  seems 
so  equally  made  up  of  sweet  and  bitter.  When  I  reach  the 
house,  there  is  only  just  time  to  smooth  my  ruffled  hair  before 
the  gong  sounds  for  lunch.  Sir  Hector  offers  a  diversion — not 
an  agreeable  one  by  any  means:  he  is  in  one  of  his  most  vin- 
dictive tempers:  an  "  infernal  fool  of  a  groom  "  (luckless  wight! 
how  I  pity  him!)  has  thrown  down  one  of  the  horses.  1  have  re- 
marked that  when  a  horse  comes  to  grief  it  is  never  his  own 
fault,  unless  his  master  is  on  his  back:  the  grooms  always  throw 
him  down. 

What  little  consolation  is  to  be  derived  from  discharging  him 
with  the  threat  of  no  character  Sir  Hector  has,  but  it  is  all  in- 
sufficient to  appease  his  wrath.  Everybody,  everything,  is 
wrong.  I  ask  after  my  lady's  headache.  He  does  not  know 
(snappishly);  all  he  knows  is,  that  if  women  will  lie  in  bed  half 
the  day,  and  take  no  exercise,  and  eat  and  drink  just  the  same, 
it  is  no  wonder  they  have  headaches.  Poor  Lady  Montagu,  who 
has  the  smallest,  most  delicate  appetite  conceivable!  I  hazard 
that  it  is  a  lovely  day,  and  he  retorts  with  a  growl,  that  it  may 
be  a  lovely  day  for  a  parcel  of  idle  people,  who  have  nothing 
better  to  do  than  to  lie  about  in  the  sunshine  like  lap-dogs,  but 
that  to  him,  with  the  grass  crops  shriveling  up  to  nothing,  it  is 
simply  heart-breaking.  Snubbed  savagely  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I  retire,  much  depressed,  to  the  contemplation  of  lunch. 
Captain  Montagu's  eyes  are  on  his  plate;  he  does  not  come  to  my 
rescue,  nor  does  he  attempt  any  original  remark  on  his  own  ac- 
count. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?'  Sir  Hector  asks  him  presently, 
in  a  snappish  voice. 

"  I,  sir?"  looking  up  imperturbably.     "  Nothing." 

"  Nothing!''  with  a  growl.  "  I  might  have  guessed  as  much. 
Then  you  had  better  drive  over  to  Okewood  with  me." 

"  Much  too  hot,  sir;  thank  you  all  the  same  for  thinking  of 


DIAXA.     CAKE}}'.  123 

me  "  (with  a  little  twitch  of  his  flexible  upper  lip).  "  I  might  get 
a  sunstroke." 

"  Sunstroke!"  retorts  Sir  Hector,  wrathfully.  "  Pretty  fellows 
you  guardsmen  must  be,  to  be  afraid  of  a  May  sun! — very  fit  for 
a  campaign!" 

Captain  Montagu's  lip  twitches  more  than  ever,  and  I  am 
filled  with  nervous  dread  lest  he  should  actually  break  into  a 
laugh. 

"  It  is  by  taking  care  of  ourselves  in  time  of  peace,"  he  says, 
with  a  wicked  glance  at  me,  "  that  we  are  able  to  come  to  the 
fore  when  the  country  wants  us." 

Sir  Hector  pushes  away  his  plate,  and  mutters  something  that 
sounds  like  "  A  parcel  of  blanked  puppies!"  but  his  son  does 
not  seem  to  take  offense. 

"  Always  dangling  after  a  petticoat!"  is  the  next  growling 
amenity;  and  with  that  he  flings  out  of  the  room. 

"Dear  old  man,  bless  him!"  utters  his  son,  sweetly,  as  the 
door  closes  with  a  bang.  "  I  think  "  (with  a  sinile  that  has  some 
malice  in  it),  "  if  I  remember  rightly,  I  rather  shocked  you  once 
at  Warrington  by  not  going  into  rhapsodies  over  the  mere  de- 
lightful fact  of  having  a  father.  Perhaps  you  look  at  the  mat- 
ter rather  more  from  my  point  of  view  now." 

"  I  thought  all  fathers  must  be  like  mine,"  I  say,  naively. 
"Certainly  he  is  rather"  (hesitating) — ''rather  trying;  but  I 
suppose  one  ought  to  make  allowances  for  one's  father." 

"  I  wish  one's  father  would  make  one  more  allowance,"  he 
says,  laughing.  "  Come,  let  us  go  up  into  the  state  drawing- 
room;  it  will  be  the  coolest  place  to-day,  I  wish  to  Heaven  Al- 
ford  belonged  to  me,  or  was  ever  likely  to;  what  rattling  good 
parties  I  would  have  here!"  And  he  sighs. 

We  mount  the  carven  staircase  and  traverse  the  long  gallery 
lined  with  pictures.  There  are  niches  in  all  the  embrasured 
windows  which  look  out  upon  the  green  sea  of  turf  without,  and 
big  silver-bound  oak  and  marqueterie  cabinets  stand  within 
them,  while  quaint  carvings  and  curious  pictures  look  down 
upon  us  from  above.  Eastern  figures  as  large  as  life,  bearing 
lamps,  stand  on  either  side  of  the  five  steps  that  lead  to  the  state 
drawing-room. 

"  Those  grim  faces  used  to  frighten  me  into  fits  when  I  was  a 
child,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  as  he  gives  me  an  unneeded  hand 
to  help  me  up  the  low  easy  stairs.  "  Come  and  sit  in  my  favor- 
ite seat"  (opening  the  door  and  leading  me  toward  the  win- 
dow). 

I  am  half  afraid  of  another  tete-a-tete  with  him,  and  yet  it  is 
exquisite  happiness  to  be  alone  with  him,  to  hear  his  thrilling 
voice,  and  to  meet  the  glances  of  his  kind  eyes.  And  it  will  be 
over  so  soon  now! 

"  We  shall  not  have  much  longer  together,"  he  says  softly,  as 
if  divining  my  thought  from  the  half -reluctant  manner  in  which 
I  follow  him* 

"  No,"  I  answer,  with  a  long  sigh,  which  I  hope  is  only  audible 
to  myself . 

3o  we  seat  ourselves  on  the  low  couch  that  fills  up  the  deep 


124  DIANA    CAREW. 

mullioned  window,  and  for  a  little  while  neither  breaks  the 
silence.  He  is  looking  out  upon  the  greensward,  and  I  am  con- 
templating the  room  and  its  furniture — from  the  dark  polished 
parquet  floor  to  the  painted  ceiling.  The  huge  carved  chimney- 
piece  impanels  the  portrait  of  the  oldest  known  ancestor  of  the 
Montagus;  it  is  a  hideous  stiff  painting  by  Holbein,  and  in  the 
eyelashless  eyes  and  shadowless  face  I  amuse  myself  by  finding 
a  likeness  to  Sir  Hector. 

"  By  Jove,  so  there  is,  now  you  mention  it!"  laughs  Captain 
Montagu.  "  Tell  him  so.  If  a  man  could  be  flattered  and  un- 
flattered  in  a  breath,  I  should  think  such  a  remark  would  be  cal- 
culated to  inspire  that  paradoxical  sensation  in  him." 

"/  tell  him!"  I  echo,  laughing  too;  "not  for  the  world.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  ever  venture  another  remark;  my  conversa- 
tion shall  be:  Yea,  yea.  and  nay,  nay.  Not  even  the  the  weather 
is  a  safe  topic  with  him  to-day.  I  can  see  a  likeness  to  you 
there  "  (pointing  to  a  full-length  portrait,  in  cavalier  dress,  of  a 
very  handsome  man). 

"  Thanks,"  he  answers,  making  me  a  little  bow.  "  That  is  Sir 
Rupert,  the  scapegrace  of  the  family." 

"  I  wonder  why  scapegraces  are  always  good-looking,"  I  say, 
reflectively. 

Captain  Montagu  laughs  merrily. 

"  Perhaps  they  would  not  have  so  many  temptations  if  they 
were  not  endowed  with  certain  outward  advantages." 

"  That  is  true,"  I  think,  taking  him  ait  serieux,  and  heaving  a 
little  jealous  sigh. 

Then  he  relapses  into  silence,  and  I  let  my  eyes  wander  round 
again  over  the  portraits,  the  carved,  tapestry -covered  couches, 
the  quaint  seats  of  crimson  velvet  embroidered  in  gold,  the 
heavily-framed  mirrors  with  beveled  edges,  the  cabinets,  and 
stools,  and  sconces.  After  my  eyes  have  traveled  carefully 
round,  they  return  to  the  polished  parquet. 

"What  a  floor  for  dancing!"  I  utter,  regretfully,  breaking  the 
long  silence  at  last. 

"A  propos,"  he  says,  jumping  up  and  holding  out  his  arms, 
"  let  us  have  a  waltz." 

"Without  music?"  I  ask,  doubtfully. 

"  We  will  sing  the  '  Blue  Danube  '  until  we  are  out  of  breath," 
he  answers,  gayly. 

Our  voices  mingle  in  that  thrilling  air,  his  arm  is  round  me, 
and  we  are  floating  dehciously  over  the  polished  floor.  Suddenly 
we  stop  as  the  door  is  thrown  wide  open.  Hector,  black  and 
frowning,  is  confronting  us. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

NOT     TOLD     BY     DIANA. 

THE  pair  stop  dancing,  but  they  are  so  surprised  at  Hector's 
appearance  that  for  a  moment  Captain  Montagu  still  keeps  his 
arm  round  Diana's  waist.  Hector  comes  forward  trying  rather 
unsuccessfully  to  cover  his  frown  with  a  smile,  and  shakes 
hands  coldly  with  Diana. 


DIANA    CAREW.  125 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming,"  he  remarks,  pointedly,  to 
his  brother. 

"  Nor  did  I  until  yesterday  morning.  I  sent  a  telegram;  but  I 
suppose  you  had  left  before  it  arrived.  I  had  no  idea  there  was 
such  an  agreeable  surprise  in  store  for  me  as  finding  Miss  Carew 
here." 

Hector  looks  aggressively  disbelieving,  and  Diana,  feeling  a 
strange,  unpleasant  awkwardness,  makes  excuse  that  she  will 
inquire  after  Lady  Montagu's  headache.  Hector  opens  the  door 
for  her  with  stiff  politeness,  but  his  eyes  seek  hers  eagerly.  She 
says  "  Thank  you  "  without  looking  at  him.  He  closes  the  door, 
and  returns  to  the  window  where  his  brother  is  standing,  his 
face  working  as  though  moved  by  no  pleasant  emotion.  Charlie 
is  drumming  imperturbably  on  the  window-pane.  Hector  stands 
for  a  moment  looking  at  him — the  expression  in  his  eyes  does 
not  indicate  much  brotherly  affection ;  then  he  speaks  in  a  con- 
strained voice  and  with  apparent  effort: 

"  Is  it  a  fact  you  did  not  know  before  you  came  that  Miss 
Carew  was  staying  here  ?" 

"  It  is,"  returns  the  other,  still  playing  the  "  Blue  Danube  "  on 
the  glass  with  much  apparent  interest  in  his  occupation. 

"  Oh!"  replies  Hector,  shortly,  and  relapses  into  silence. 

Charlie  carefully  finishes  his  tune,  and  then  turns  to  confront 
his  brother.  He  is  very  good-tempered,  he  hates  quarreling  and 
argument;  but  there  is  something  so  aggressive  and  dictatorial 
in  his  brother's  manner  that  he  cannot  well  pass  it  over  as  if  he 
had  not  remarked  it.  Moreover,  he  has  a  guilty  feeling  of  not 
having  done  quite  the  right  thing,  and  that  feeling  makes  him 
doubly  resentful  of  Hector's  behavior. 

There  is  just  the  least  increase  of  color  in  his  face  as  he  turns 
to  him  and  says,  deliberately: 

"  I  did  not  know  Miss  Carewr  was  here;  but,  had  I  known,  I 
am  not  aware  that  it  would  have  been  any  reason  for  my  stay- 
ing away." 

Hector  is  silent;  in  truth,  Charlie's  remark  is  not  an  easy  one 
to  reply  to. 

"Are  you  engaged  to  Miss  Carew?"  he  proceeds;  "because,  if 
not  "  (warmly),  "  it  strikes  me,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  giving 
yourself  airs  of  proprietorship  that  are  rather  absurd,  and,  to  say 
the  least,  uncalled-for." 

Hector's  dark  brows  almost  meet,  and  he  clutches  angrily  at  a 
carved  chair-back. 

"I  know  what  you  are,"  he  exclaims;  "  you  can  no  more  let  a 
woman  alone  than  "  (somewhat  at  a  loss  for  a  simile) — "  than  a 
dog  can  help  chasing  a  rabbit.  If  I  had  been  engaged  to  her  ten 
times  over,  it  would  not  have  hindered  your  making  love  to  her 
the  moment  my  back  was  turned." 

There  is  just  sufficient  truth  in  his  remark  to  make  it  unpalat- 
able to  his  hearer. 

"  Well,  but  are  you  engaged  to  her?"  he  persists. 

"No,  I  am  not"  (shortly):  "but  I  dare  say  our  mother  has 
told  you  that  it  is  my  dearest  wish  to  marry  her,  and  that  I  have 


236  DIANA    CAREW. 

only  been  afraid  of  asking  her  for  fear  of  frightening  or  repelling 
her  by  being  in  too  great  a  hurry." 

"  Oh,"  returns  Charlie,  coolly;  "  and  when  you  have  proposed 
and  she  has  accepted  you,  am  I  to  understand  that  you  expect 
me  to  keep  away  from  Alford  altogether  ?  And  am  I  to  be  the 
only  victim  ?  or  do  you  propose  to  keep  every  other  man  under 
sixty  away  from  the  house,  for  fear  of  endangering  your  peace 
of  mind  ?  If  so "  (Charlie  has  lashed  himself  into  most  un- 
wonted bitterness),  "I  must  say  it  betrays  a  singular  want  of 
confidence  in  your  own  powers  of  pleasing,  and  the  future  Mrs. 
Montagu  seems  likely  to  have  rather  a  lively  time  of  it." 

Every  word  goes  home,  far  more  keenly  than  the  speaker  has 
any  idea  or  intention  of.  Hector  turns  fiercely  away,  and  walks 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  Captain  Montagu  resumes  the 
' '  Blue  Danube  "  where  he  left  off. 

Hector  is  away  some  five  minutes:  to  judge  by  his  face  an  in- 
tense struggle  is  going  on  within  him;  then  he  comes  slowly 
back  to  the  couch  on  which  his  brother  has  thrown  himself  full 
length.  He  takes  no  notice  of  Hector;  with  his  hands  under  his 
head,  he  is  apparently  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  a  fly  that 
is  making  frantic  efforts  to  extricate  itself  from  a  spider's  cun- 
ning web.  Hector  evidently  wants  to  say  something,  but  can- 
not bring  himself  to  the  utterance;  he  stands  for  a  moment  look- 
ing at  his  brother,  then  he  takes  another  hasty  turn.  This  time 
he  plunges  desperately  into  his  subject. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,''  he  begins,  in  a  harsh  tone. 

Charlie  brings  his  eyes  slowly  from  the  ceiling  to  his  brother's 
face,  and  Hector  cannot  but  own  in  his  heart,  grudgingly  though 
he  does  it,  what  a  handsome  fellow  he  is. 

"  I  dare  say  you  know,"  he  proceeds,  in  a  voice  quite  hoarse 
from  strangled  emotion,  "  that  I  have  never  been  in  love  before  in 
my  life,  not  really  in  love.  I  have  never  cared  intensely  for  a 
woman,  never  thought  much  of  them  except  as  toys  to  while 
away  one's  idle  hours.  Well "  (pausing,  and  finding  the  next 
words  bitterly  hard  to  say),  ' '  my  whole  soul  is  in  this.  Of  course 
I  know  what  you  think  about  me;  you  think  I'm  a  cold,  hard 
sort  of  fellow  without  a  grain  of  sentiment.  I  haven't  frittered 
away  my  heart"  (with  some  contempt),  "  and  given  a  thousand 
bits  to  a  thousand  different  women:  so  now "  (dropping  his 
voice)  "  that  I  have  come  to  love  at  last,  it  goes  rather  hard  with 
me.  My  life  and  soul  are  in  it"  (passionately);  "if  I  thought  I 
should  lose  her,  my  God!"  (wildly),  "  I  don't  know  what  would 
become  of  me  " 

Charlie  has  risen  to  a  sitting  posture,  astonished,  almost 
shocked  at  his  brother's  vehemence. 

"  My  dear  fellow —  -"  he  begins,  but  Hector  cuts  him  short. 

"  What  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  this.  She  is  nothing,  can  be 
nothing,  to  you:  you  don't  want  to  marry  her,  you  could  not  if 
you  did,  for  Heaven's  sake  do  not  come  between  us.  I  know 
you  have  some  wonderful  influence  over  women,  though " 
(roughly;  "  God  knows  what  it  is  except  your  good-looking  face 
and  soft  voice;  but  I  ask  you,  I  entreat  you,  the  first  favor  I  ever 
asked  of  you  in  my  life,  to  go  away  until  it  is  all  settled.  Then  " 


DIANA    CAREW.  127 

(hesitatingly),  "if  she  does  come  to  care  for  me,  I  need  not  be 
afraid  of  you,  nor  "  (smiling  uneasily)  "  the  -whole  brigade  of 
guards  at  your  back." 

Charlie  Is  very  weak  and  very  good-natured.  He  is  vastly 
taken  with  Diana:  in  the  wood  that  morning  he  had  felt  himself 
on  the  verge  of  falling  in  love  with  her;  but  now  that  his  brother 
appeals  to  him  so  earnestly,  with  the  conviction  also  staring  him 
in  the  face  that  any  idea  of  marrying  her  himself  would  be 
utterly,  ridiculously  impossible,  he  behaves  in  the  gracious 
pleasant  way  that  is  the  key  to  the  charm  he  exercises  over 
people. 

"  My  dear  old  fellow,"  he  says,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  I  did 
not  know  it  was  such  a  serious  business.  Of  course  she  likes 
you;  of  course  she  will  have  you;  and  if  you  think,  though  you 
greatly  overrate  my  powers,  that  I  am  likely  to  stand  in  your 
way,  I'll  be  off  to-morrow  by  the  first  train.  So  now"(gayly) 
"set  your  mind  at  rest.  I'll  gooff  and  have  a  ride,  and  next 
time  I  see  you  both  I  hope  to  say,  '  Bless  you,  my  children.'  " 

Hector  grasps  his  brother's  hand  with  a  warmer  clasp  than  he 
has  done  for  many  a  long  day;  and  so  they  part,  Charlie  for  his 
ride,  Hector  with  a  beating  heart  to  look  for  Diana.  He  finds 
her  presently  in  the  small  drawing-room.  She  greets  him  with 
a  cold,  civil  little  smile  as  he  comes  eagerly  up  to  her.  In  her 
heart  she  is  thinking  very  unkindly  of  him  for  having  spoiled 
her  tete-a-tete  with  his  brother. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  mother? — is  she  better?"  he  asks,  sitting 
down  in  front  of  her. 

''  Her  head  is  better,  but  she  wishes  to  keep  very  quiet,  that 
she  may  come  down  to  dinner;  so  I  did  not  see  her." 

"You  are  not  going  to  stay  in-doors  all  the  afternoon,  are 
you?"  he  says.  "  Won't  you  come  out  for  a  drive  ?" 

"  Thanks"  (coldly);  "  I  "do  not  care  to  drive  to-day." 

She  fancies  that  lie  wants  to  take  her  away  from  his  brother, 
and  resents  it. 

'  I  thought  you  were  so  fond  of  driving." 

'  So  I  am;  but " 

'  But  what  ?" 

'  I  do  not  care  to  be  always  driving  "  (pettishly). 

'  Come  into  the  garden,  then,  or  let  me  row  you  in  tha 
boat." 

She  assents  to  this,  thinking  Captain  Montagu  will  join 
them. 

As  they  cross  toward  the  water,  she  catches  sight  of  a  mounted 
figure,  and  her  heart  gives  a  little  indignant  throb. 

"We  might  all  have  gone  out  riding,"  she  says,  in  a  tone 
whose  regret  is  extremely  apparent.  "Why  not  now?"  he  an- 
swers, eagerly;  "there  is  plenty  of  time.  I  will  go  and  order 
the  horses." 

She  pauses,  irresolute;  her  heart  has  gone  after  the  solitary 
horseman,  but  she  feels  it  would  be  undignified  to  seem  to  run 
after  him. 

"  Nd,"  she  says,  shaking  her  head;  "  I  do  not  care  for  it 
to-day;  it  is  too  hot," 


128  DIANA    CAREW. 

He  helps  her  into  the  boat,  and  rows  her  about  untiringly. 
She  is  vexedly  conscious  that  his  dark  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her, 
and  that  he  scarcely  ever  averts  them.  Hector  is  beginning  to 
love  her  idolatrously;  he  feels  as  if  he  could  never  look  too  long 
at  that  sweet  face,  with  its  clear  soft  color,  its  red,  half-parted 
iips,  its  lovely  fringed  eyelids.  Anon  his  eyes  travel  to  the  pillar- 
like  throat,  so  creamily  white,  and  the  slender  fingers  that  she 
holds  over  the  boat's  side,  that  the  cool  water  may  trickle  through 
them.  He  cannot  but  see  that  she  is  a  little  perverse  and  pettish 
this  afternoon,  but  he  loves  her  none  the  less  for  it,  only  it  sends 
a  quick  pang  through  his  heart  as  he  conjectures  the  cause.  But 
when  he  is  gone,  he  tells  himself,  she  will  be  her  own  bright  self 
again,  as  she  was  yesterday  (only  yesterday!  it  seems  a  week), 
when  she  wished  him  "  good-bye"  at  the  station, 

Captain  Montagu  is  seen  no  more  until  dinner.  Diana  spends 
nearly  an  hour  in  trying  to  look  her  fairest.  She  goes  softly 
down-  stairs  ten  minutes  before  the  bell  rings,  but  has  the  draw- 
ing-room all  to  herself.  Captain  Montagu  does  not  join  them 
until  the  gong  has  sounded.  At  dinner  he  devotes  himself  to 
his  mother,  who  is  well  enough  just  to  sit  at  the  table;  and 
Hector  monopolizes  Diana  entirely.  She  is  miserable;  she  longs 
for  only  one  kind  glance,  but  longs  in  vain.  She  looks  wistfully 
across  at  him  many  a  time,  but  he  seems  studiously  to  avoid  her. 

"He  will  look  at  me  when  I  pass  him  after  dinner,"  she 
thinks;  but.  though  he  rises  from  his  seat,  he  leaves  Hector  to 
open  the  door.  Lady  Montagu,  after  a  few  kind  words,  goes 
back  to  her  bedroom,  not  being  sufficiently  recovered  to  stay  up 
longer,  and  Diana  is  left  to  herself.  The  tears  spring  to  her 
eyes.  Is  this  the  end  of  ' '  the  golden  day  ?"  Her  poor  little 
heart  is  quivering  with  the  stabs  of  Captain  Montagu's  indiffer- 
ence; she  longs  agonizingly  for  one  of  those  looks  that  he  was 
prodigal  enough  of  this  morning.  And  for  one  wild,  foolish 
moment  in  the  wood  she  had  fancied  she  might  be  something  to 
him.  She  has  forgotten  the  friendly,  pleasant  liking  she  had  for 
Hector  only  yesterday;  a  passionate  anger  is  creeping  into  her 
heart;  his  love  for  her,  which  she  is  forced  to  see,  pleads  no  ex- 
cuse for  him  in  her  indignant  disappointment.  She  thinks  of 
last  night — of  her  walk  in  the  moonlight  with  Captain  Montagu, 
She  has  forgotten  how  little  pleasure  it  really  gave  her,  and 
magnifies  the  delight  of  it  a  thousandfold.  She  is  feverish  and 
restless:  she  feels  she  cannot  sit  and  talk  to  Hector,  she  will  be 
forced  into  saying  something  sharp  or  rude  to  him.  and  as  for 
chess!  no,  she  cannot,  will  not  undergo  that  torture  to-night,  let 
Sir  Hector  think  or  say  what  he  will.  Let  him  be  angry!  her 
fear  of  him  is  swallowed  up  by  a  much  greater  emotion.  She 
will  plead  indisposition  and  go  to  her  room  But  how  will  that 
be  better  ?  she  thinks,  forlornly.  She  cannot  sleep,  and  will 
have  cut  herself  off  from  all  chance  of  seeing  him.  She  goes  to 
the  window  and  looks  out.  The  moon  is  rising  in  all  her  splen- 
dor behind  the  dark  trees:  her  pure,  cold  light  is  flooding  gar- 
den, lawn,  and  lake  with  silver,  A  sudden  thought  makes 
Diana's  heart  throb.  She  will  go  out,  not  with  any  thought  of 
meeting  him — she  was  too  proud  for  that — but  out  in  the  clear, 


DIANA     CAREW.  129 

soft  stillness  of  the  night  she  will  not  feel  oppressed  as  she  does 
here. 

In  a  moment  she  has  opened  the  door,  and  is  rushing  along  the 
corridor.  Many  pairs  of  eyes  look  down  upon  her  from  the 
carved  oaken  panels,  but  the  lips  that  belong  to  them  can  tell  no 
tales.  She  snatches  up  the  lace  shawl  with  a  pang,  as  she  re- 
members how  tenderly  he  wrapped  her  in  it  last  night,  and  then 
she  flits  hurriedly  away  out  into  the  hush  of  the  radiant  night. 
Unprerneditatedly,  unconsciously  almost,  she  takes  the  path 
toward  the  wood,  not  pausing  until  she  comes  to  the  gate  that 
leads  into  it.  Stopping,  she  leans  over  it,  her  soul  filled  full  of 
the  bitter-sweet  of  memory.  It  was  here  they  stopped  and  leaned 
together  in  the  morning  of  the  golden  day  that  was  to  have  been. 
Golden  morning,  leaden  afternoon!  she  thinks,  drearily.  Diana 
has  not  a  very  courageous  soul,  she  is  not  used  to  lonely  night 
wanderings,  but  to-night  she  feels  no  fear. 

"  I  will  go  into  the  wood,"  she  thinks,  "  and  sit  on  the  felled 
tree  where  we  sat  this  morning."  And  thither  she  goes. 

If  the  pale  primroses  were  fair  in  the  gold  sunshine,  they  are 
fairer  still  steeped  in  the  silver  moonbeams,  shining  out  white 
and  virginal  from  among  the  dark  clumps  of  hyacinths,  too 
dark  to  be  irradiated  by  the  pure  pale  light.  Diana  tries  to  re- 
call the  memory  of  the  morning:  closing  her  eyes  she  sees  him 
standing  there  before  her,  with  arms  outstretched  to  her,  his 
blue  eyes  looking  down  upon  her  full  of  love. 

"  Ah!  but  he  is  used  to  look  like  that,"  she  tells  herself,  deso- 
lately. "  Did  he  not  own  that  he  could  not  be  ten  minutes  in 
the  company  of  a  woman  without  wanting  to  make  love  to 
her?" 

At  this  bitter  thought  all  courage  and  hope  forsake  her,  and 
she  falls  to  weeping  piteously.  The  distant  click  of  the  gate's 
latch  arouses  her,  and  makes  her  heart  beat  with  wild  terror. 
"Who  can  it  be  ?  She  is  fain  to  fly,  but  remembers  that  she  does 
not  know  her  way.  If  she  goes  toward  the  house,  she  must 
meet  whoever  it  is.  It  may  be  a  poacher:  he  may  murder  her, 
she  thinks,  in  an  agony  of  fear.  Her  quick,  frightened  ear 
catches  the  sound  of  a  slow,  measured  footfall;  it  does  not  sound 
like  a  poacher's  tread;  it  may  be  Hector  come  to  look  for  her; 
but  then  he  would  be  walking  fast.  It  may  be — and  her  heart 
beats  more  wildly  still— it  may  be  his  brother,  bound  on  the 
same  errand  as  herself.  Another  minute  solves  the  doubt,  as 
Captain  Montagu,  in  evening  dress,  except  the  coat,  which  he 
has  exchanged  for  a  shooting-jacket,  bareheaded,  cigar  in 
mouth,  strolls  leisurely  into  view.  She  jumps  up  in  an  ecstasy 
of  mingled  joy  and  shame — joy  at  being  with  him  once  more, 
shame  at  the  recollection  of  her  tear-stained  face.  He  sees  her, 
and  utters  an  exclamation  of  strong  surprise. 

"  Is  it  really  you  ?"  he  says,  coming  quickly  toward  her.  "  Can 
I  believe  my  eyes  ?" 

Diana  smiles  (it  is  not  hard  to  smile,  looking  back  into  those 
kindling  eyes),  and  stammers  a  little  lame  excuse. 

"  It  was  such  a  lovely  night,  the  room  was  warm,  and — and  I 
don't  feel  equal  to  chess  to-night." 


180  DIANA    CAREW. 

He  has  thrown  his  cigar  away,  and  is  looking  at  her,  thinking 
how  fair  she  is,  knowing  she  has  been  crying  about  him,  ivishing 
he  had  not  made  that  promise  to  Hector.  He  had  fully  meant, 
he  does  mean,  to  keep  it:  has  he  not  come  out  here  on  purpose 
to  leave  the  field  clear  for  his  brother?  Is  he  not  going  away 
to-morrow  morning  by  the  first  train  (a  most  awful  nuisance, 
too.  getting  up  in  the  dead  of  night)  to  oblige  him  ? 

But  Charlie  is  very  weak,  especially  about  women,  and  Diana 
is  very  fair;  it  is  the  old,  old  story. 

"  And  I  came  out  here  on  purpose  to  avoid  you,"  he  says. 

The  words  are  not  flattering,  but  they  are  uttered  in  a  tone 
which  leaves  Diana  nothing  to  resent. 

"  I  can  go  in,"  she  answers,  making  as  if  to  leave  him.  He 
lets  her  go  three  paces,  and  then  cries: 

"  Do  not  go." 

She  turns  and  stands  there  half  reluctant. 

"Let  us  sit  down  together  where  we  did  this  morning,"  he 
whispers;  "  it  will  be  the  last  time  we  shall  be  together." 

"  The  last  time?"  she  echoes,  with  a  startled  look.     "  Why?" 

"  Because  I  am  going  away  to-morrow  by  the  first  train." 

Diana  looks  away;  a  great  knot  rises  in  her  throat,  the  pale, 
clear  primroses  are  a  blurred,  confused  mass  of  white;  for  all 
the  shame  of  it,  for  all  her  eager  desire  to  repress  them,  two 
great  shining  tears  ivill  gather  before  her  bright  eyes,  will  stand 
trembling  like  diamonds  on  the  sweet  lids,  will  fall  with  a  little 
plash  into  her  lap!  and,  though  her  face  is  half  averted,  he  sees 
it.  Oh,  what  irremediable  mischief  woman's  tears  have  worked 
since  the  beginning  of  time! 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

NOT     TOLD     BY     DIANA. 

A  STRUGGLE  takes  place  in  Captain  Montagu's  mind;  it  is 
short-lived.  He  has  neve"  accustomed  himself  to  conquer  self, 
it  has  always  been  so  pleasant  to  act  on  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, and  very  rarely  in  his  life  has  it  been  followed  by  un- 
pleasant consequences  for  him.  It  is  unfair  after  his  promise  to 
be  sitting  here  now,  it  is  as  unfair  to  Diana  as  to  Hector,  and 
yet  on  this  fair,  warm  night,  with  the  sweet  spring  scents  filling 
his  senses,  with  the  amorous  song  of  the  nightingale  thrilling 
through  the  soft  night  air,  with  the  proximity  of  a  fair  and  lov- 
ing woman,  he  is  morally  incapable  of  jumping  up,  as  he  knows 
he  ought  to  do,  and  walking  off  briskly  in  the  opposite  direction. 
The  knowledge  of  its  being  wrong  makes  the  temptation  stronger 
still.  But  how  could  he,  he  told  himself  afterward,  when  it  was 
too  late,  see  her  in  distress  and  not  attempt  to  soothe  her  ?  In 
distress  for  him.  too!  It  would  have  been  simply  brutal. 

"  Darling."  he  whispers,  stealing  one  arm  round  her,  and 
drawing  her  head  on  to  his  shoulder,  "  don't  let  me  see  tears  in 
those  dear  eyes!"  As  he  sees  two  more  impending,  he  bends 
down  and  kisses  them  away.  She  leaves  her  head  where  he  has 
laid  it.  she  is  very  young,  very  innocent,  she  has  not  been 
brought  up  with  strict  cautions  about  the  proprieties;  the  heroes 


DIANA    CAREW.  131 

of  her  books  have  always  kissed  the  heroines  (at  parting  from 
them,  or  on  some  supreme  occasion  like  this),  and  for  the  most 
part  the  heroines  have  taken  it  as  she  is  doing  now,  happily,  un- 
resistingly. She  is  not  overtaken  by  a  paroxysm  of  indignant 
virtue,  as,  perhaps,  a  well-tutored  young  lady  would  have  been, 
because  her  mind  is  too  pure  to  think  any  harm.  It  would  have 
seemed  horrible,  loathsome  to  her  to  have  been  kissed  by  a  man 
whom  she  did  not  love;  but  here,  where  all  her  heart  is  given, 
it  does  not  seem  wrong — not  even  unnatural. 

Captain  Montagu,  having  made  no  resistance  to  temptation, 
is,  as  happens  to  most  of  us.  swept  away  by  it  altogether. 

"  My  darling,'"  he  cries,  the  warm  blood  stirring  in  his  veins, 
finding  her  doubly  dear  because  he  knows  she  cannot  be  his, 
"do  you  think  I  can  give  you  up  without  a  struggle?  Only  this 
time  last  night  I  had  no  more  thought  of  loi'ing  you  than  I  had 
of  flying,  and  now,  to-night,  I  feel  as  if  pai-ting  with  you  was 
like  parting  with  my  heart's  blood."  Her  lips  are  so  near  to  his, 
how  can  they  help  but  meet?  Then  she  draws  herself  away 
from  him,  and,  sitting  upright,  pushes  back  her  hair  with  a  con- 
fused motion.  She  is  silent,  but  her  heart  is  saying  wildly,  "  He 
will  not,  he  cannot  leave  me  now/' 

But  he,  too,  has  pulled  himself  together;  he  has  been  through 
scenes  something  of  this  kind  before,  and  he  feels  that  he  must 
make  an  effort,  or  the  witchery  of  the  night  and  this  fair  girl 
may  plunge  him  into  an  act  of  folly  that  will  bring  a  life-long 
repentance.  It  is  bitterly  hard  to  be  practical  under  present 
circumstances.  If  Diana  had  been  town-bred,  if  she  had  mixed 
in  society,  it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to  attempt  any  ex- 
planation as  to  the  impossibility  of  their  thinking  of  marriage; 
but  she  is  a  simple  unsophisticated  girl  (however  sweet  and 
dear),  who  knows  nothing  of  the  world's  ways,  and  who,  worst 
of  all,  is  accustomed  to  comparative  poverty.  Feeling  and  ex- 
pediency are  equally  mixed  as  he  says  (hating  himself  the  while 
for  saying  it),  "  1  never  in  my  life  cared  for  a  girl  before  as  I  do 
for  you.  I  never  dreamed  of  marrying  except  as  a  means  of 
paying  my  debts  and  launching  me  "afresh  in  the  world;  but  I 
swear  to  you  it  gives  me  the  most  horrible  pain  that  I  cannot 
ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

"  I  know,"  she  answers,  hurriedly,  though  a  pang  shoots 
through  her  breast,  but  wanting  to  save  him  the  pain  of  a  con- 
fession— "I  know  it  is  quite  impossible.  I  never  thought  of 
anything  of  that  sort.  If '' (drooping  her  sweet  face  in  shame) 
"  if  I  might  think  you — you  liked  me  a  little," 

"Liked  you!"  cries  the  young  man,  passionately;  "what  a 
poor  little  miserable  cold  word!  Think  and  be  quite  sure  that  I 
love  you,  and  that  I  would  give  my  right  hand  to  make  you 
mine." 

Diana  looks  up  into  his  face  with  radiant  eyes. 

"  I  shall  not  mind  anything  now  I  have  heard  you  say  that," 
she  says,  innocently;  "'it  will  be  enough  to  live  on  all  the  rest 
of  my  life." 

"Oh,  darling!"  he  utters,  remorsefully,  taking  her  hand  in 
his,  "  why  do  you  make  me  feel  such  a  brute?  How  can  you 


132  DIANA    CAREW. 

care  for  such  a  miserable,  selfish  fellow  as  I  am  ?  Why,  even 
now  this  moment,  loving  you  as  I  do  "  (moved  to  the  confession 
by  a  worthy  sense  of  shame),  "  do  you  not  see  that  I  am  sacri- 
ficing you  to  my  selfishness  in  the  most  hateful,  cold-blooded 
way  ?" 

"Hush!"  she  says,  laying  her  slim  fingers  on  his  lips;  "do 
not  breathe  a  word  against  yourself;  it  would  be  the  only 
thing  "  (with  loving  emphasis)  "  you  could  say  that  I  should  not 
believe." 

Her  sweetness,  her  fairness,  her  love,  rise  up  before  him,  and 
overcome  all  which  prudence,  worldliness,  and  selfishness  had 
whispered  to  him  before. 

"  My  sweet!"  he  cries,  catching  her  in  his  arms,  "  I  can,  I  will 
give  up  everything  in  the  world  for  your  sake,  if  you  can  put  up 
with  me  as  I  am." 

She  yields  for  one  moment  to  his  passionate  embrace;  then, 
with  a  sigh,  she  withdraws  herself  gently  from,  his  binding 
arms. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  says,  laying  one  slim  white  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon  his  passion- wrought  face 
— "do  you  think  I  love  you  so  little  as  that?  No,  no,  no!  it  is 
•very  generous  of  you,  but  it  is  impossible.  I  know  it  even  bet- 
ter than  you  do." 

Her  words  stab  him.  He  generous!  he  feels  intensely,  more 
intensely  than  he  has  ever  felt  anything  in  his  life,  how  selfish 
and  ignoble  his  conduct  has  been.  He  feels  in  truth 

"  There  is  no  after-pang 

Can  deal  that  vengeance  on  the  self -condemned 
He  deals  on  his  own  soul." 

Yet,  even  now,  as  he  dwells  upon  her  fairness  and  thinks  it  will 
be  Hector's,  not  his,  he  grudges  her  bitterly  to  him. 

"What  unlucky  chance  brought  us  out  here  together  to- 
night?" he  says,  miserably.  "  I  had  resolved  not  to  put  myself 
in  the  way  of  temptation  again,  and  "  (half  to  himself)  "  I  had 
given  him  my  word." 

"  What?"  cries  Diana,  with  kindling  eyes,  catching  the  words 
and  understanding  them  all  too  well. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  mincing  matters?"  he  says,  moodily, 
leaning  against  the  stalwart  oak  trunk,  through  whose  as  yet 
sparsely  filled  branches  the  moonbeams  glint  on  the  workings  of 
his  face.  "  You  know  that  Hector  loves  you,  you  know  he 
wants  to  marry  you,  and  "  (bitterly),  "  in  time  of  course  you  will 
marry  him.  He  is  young  enough,  he  is  not  bad-looking,  he  is 
devoted  to  you,  and  all  this  "  (with  a  little  wave  of  his  hand) 
"  will  be  his." 

Speaking,  Captain  Montagu  takes  some  little  credit  to  himself 
that,  however  reluctantly,  with  however  ill  a  grace,  he  is  still 
pleading  his  brother's  cause.  If  it  were  possible  for  scorn  to 
creep  into  so  great  a  love  as  Diana's,  it  glances  for  one  moment 
upon  him  from  her  flashing  eyes.  But  as  she  looks  upon  that 
dear  face  it  dies  out. 

"Do  not,"  she  whispers,  softly;  "  you  hurt  me.  If  you  cared 
ever  so  little  for  me  you  could  not  bear  to  think  of  my  belonging 


DIANA     CAREW.  133 

to  him.  I  know  nothing  of  love " — looking  at  him  with  clear 
steadfast  eyes — "but,  oh,  I  know,  I  feel  that  by  a  sort  of  in- 
stinct." 

"  You  are  right,"  he  says,  catching  at  her  hand.  "  I  hate  the 
thought  like  death.  Well"— eagerly— "say  the  word,  take  me 
for  worse  and  for  poorer,  and  then  I  shall  not  have  to  think  of 
giving  you  up  to  any  one." 

She  is  only  a  child,  a  child  without  experience,  but  she  knows, 
even  if  he  thinks  it  for  the  moment,  that  he  is  not  in  earnest 
about  it.  that  if  she  yielded  he  would  regret  it  even  to-night.  If 
the  sacrifice,  the  self-abnegation,  had  been  for  her  in  the  future, 
would  she  not  have  consented  joyfully,  without  a  fear,  without 
a  pang?  But  it  would  be  on  his  part,  and  she  knows,  without 
its  detracting  from  her  love  for  him  one  whit,  that  he  would 
grudge  the  sacrifice  later,  if  not  now.  She  laughs  to  scorn  the 
bare  idea  that  she  can  be  worthy  of  him;  what  has  she  to  give 
him  but  her  love,  her  poor,  little,  worthless  love,  that  is,  after 
all.  only  an  involuntary  tribute  to  his  perfection? 

The  church-clock  strikes  ten  with  a  slow,  sonorous  sound. 

"  Your  father  is  awake,  and  waiting  for  his  game,"  she  says, 
looking  up  with  an  awed  face  and  returning  to  sudden  conscious- 
ness of  the  present. 

Captain  Montagu  cannot  help  laughing. 

"Poor  little  darling!"  he  whispers;  "how  they  have  cowed 
you  already!" 

"  He  will  wake  up,"  says  Diana,  in  a  low.  prophetic  voice; 
"  he  will  look  about  for  me,  and  then  he  will  ring  and  ask  for 
me;  they  will  go  to  my  room  and  not  find  me  there;  then,"  her 
voice  rising,  "  they  will  come  out  and  look  for  me.  Oh  "  (grasp- 
ing his  arm,  and  looking  in  his  face  with  a  blanched,  frightened 
gaze),  "  if  they  find  me  here  with  you  I  shall  die." 

"They  shall  not  find  you  here  with  me,"  he  says,  in  a 
soothing  voice,  seeing  that  she  is  really  terrified  and  that  her 
nerves  are  overstrung.  "  Come;  we  will  go  toward  the  house, 
and  then,  when  we  are  in  the  garden,  if  we  hear  any  one  coming 
we  can  separate." 

"  Come!"  she  cries,  making  her  way  swiftly  toward  the  gate, 
he  following  her. 

At  the  gate  they  pause,  as  they  did  in  the  morning. 

"Is  it  to  be  'good-bye,'  then?"  he  whispers,  looking  regret- 
fully at  her. 

"  Why  need  you  go  to-morrow?"  she  asks,  evasively. 

"  Because  I  have  promised." 

"  But,"  she  urges,  in  an  earnest  voice,  "  if  he — if  Mr.  Montagu 
knows  that  I  can  never  be  anything  more  to  him  than"  (falter- 
ingly)  "  to  you,  why  should  we  not  all  be  happy  together?" 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Cain  and  Abel  ?  One  brother  murdered 
the  other  because  he  was  jealous;  though  I  never  heard  that  a 
woman  had  anything  to  do  with  it  in  that  case.  But  it  etrikes 
me  that  if  we  were  in  the  same  house  with  you  for  another  week 
with  our  present  feelings,  we  should  both  feel  pretty  much 
toward  each  other  as  Cain  and  Abel  did;  or  rather,  as  Cain  did 
to  Abel." 


134  DIANA    CAREIV. 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  she  sighs,  with  bitter  reluctance,  stretching 
out  her  hand. 

"Not  yet,"  he  cries.  "Oh,  little  darling,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
could  part  from  you!" 

"I  must  go,"  she  whispers.  "They  would  know  it  was  un- 
natural for  me  to  be  out  so  late  alone.  I  think  your  mother 
would  not  be  pleased^  She  is  the  only  one  I  should  be  really 
grieved  to  vex." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  whispers  again,  and  lifts  her  sweet  face  to 
take  one  last  look  at  him.  He  sees  the  tremulous  red  mouth, 
the  bright  eyes  shining  through  unshed  tears,  the  white,  fair 
face,  in  which  the  warm  color  ebbs  and  flows;  he  hears  the 
quiver  in  the  soft  voice,  and  again  he  thinks  remorsefully  of  all 
he  will  lose  in  parting  from  Tier.  He  draws  her  back  a  few 
paces  out  of  the  moonlight  into  the  deep  shadow  of  the  tree. 
Once  more  his  arms  are  around  her,  once  more  he  kisses  her 
sweet  lips.  For  a  moment  she  clings  to  him,  as  though  to  part 
from  him  were  to  pai't  with  her  whole  soul;  and  then  she  leaves 
him  standing  there  alone,  fighting  with  a  passionate  love  and 
regret  for  her,  and  goes  swiftly  toward  the  house.  In  front  of 
the  door,  in  the  full  white  light,  Hector  is  standing. 

"  Miss  Carew!"  he  exclaims,  in  a  voice  wherein  surprise  and 
anger  fight  for  mastery,  and  then,  with  a  swift  change  of  voice, 
speaking  very  eagerly,  "  How  pale  you  are!  Have  you  been 
frightened  ?" 

"  I!  no,"  she  answers,  staring  at  him,  and  trembling  in  every 
limb:  Her  nerves  are  overwrought:  a  deadly  fear  and  sickness 
come  across  her. 

"  You  look  quite  ill,"  he  says,  anxiously.  "  Let  me  get  you  a 
glass  of  wine."  And,  without  waiting  for  her  answer,  he  draws 
her  unresisting  hand  through  his  arm,  and  leads  her  away  into 
the  house.  There  is  a  light  in  the  smoking-room,  and  he  pushes 
the  door  open,  and  takes  her  in  and  places  her  in  a  low  chair  by 
the  open  window.  Then  he  hurries  off  for  the  wine.  Whilst  he 
is  gone,  she  collects  herself,  and  is  able  to  smile  upon  him  when 
he  returns,  and  to  make  a  pretense  even  of  sipping  what  he 
brings  her. 

"  And  answered  with  such  craft  as  women  use, 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously." 

"Were  you  frightened?"  Hector  asks  her  again,  pertina- 
ciously. 

"  No — yes,"  she  stammers.  "  The  moon  throws  such  strange, 
ghostly  shadows  these  bright  nights." 

"  Did  you  go  out  alone  ?"  he  asks,  eying  her  with  stern 
curiosity. 

Diana  pauses:  she  has  never  told  a  lie  in  her  life.  But  a  quick 
thought  comes  to  her  rescue;  he  has  asked  her  if  she  ivent  alone, 
and  to  that  she  can  answer  "  Yes,"  truthfully. 

"Why  did  you  not  wait  for  me?"  he  says,  with  gentle  re- 
proach, coming  a  little  nearer  to  her.  "  Did  you  not  know  how 
glad  I  should  have  been  to  go  with  you?'' 


DIANA    CAREW.  135 

She  shrinks  from  him  imperceptibly,  and  utters  a  little  forced 
laugh. 

"  Thank  you,''  she  says.  "  I  felt  oppressed  by  the  heat,  and 
thought  the  fresh  air  would  do  me  good.  What  did  Sir  Hector 
say  ?'' 

"  He  took  it  for  granted  you  had  gone  to  bed,"  answers  Mr. 
Montagu,  stiffly.  He  is  still  haunted  by  a  vague,  horrible  sus- 
picion, although  he  believes  firmly  in  her  truthfulness.  Cer- 
tainly she  is  not  the  same  gay,  laughing  Diana  he  drove  along 
the  hawthorn-bound  lanes,  and  wished  good-bye  to,  only  yes- 
terday morning,  before  that  hateful  journey. 

She  has  relapsed  into  weary  silence,  and,  glancing  at  her, 
"  Right  through  his  manful  breast  darted  the  pang 
That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miserable." 

"  I  shall  steal  off  to  bed,"  she  says,  rising,  and  forcing  rather 
a  wan  smile.  "  Do  not  betray  me  to  your  father.  Good-night!" 

Somehow  he  has  no  heart  to  ask  her  to  linger.  He  bids  her  a 
cold  good-night. 

"  To-morrow!"  he  whispers  to  himself,  as  he  looks  after  her 
retreating  figure;  "  to-morrow!"  But  still  he  sighs,  and  his 
heart  is  heavy  within  him.  Even  his  cigar  affords  him  but  poor 
consolation  to-night. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

NOT    TOLD    BY    DIANA. 

DIANA  is  awake  early  next  morning;  indeed,  she  has  not  passed 
a  very  tranquil  night.  A  great  crisis  in  her  life  has  come;  but 
what  lies  beyond  ?  She  hardly  dares  to  think ;  fain  would  she 
content  herself  with  the  present,  but  the  thought  of  what  is  to 
follow  will  creep  in.  She  had  imagined  for  the  minute,  whilst 
the  man  she  loved  was  at  her  side,  that  she  could  live  for  all  time 
on  that  memory;  and  yet  already  she  is  hankering  and  longing 
to  see  him  again;  and  thinking  how  blank  and  void  to-day  will 
be  without  him.  She  hears  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  springs  out 
of  bed.  She  can  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  dog-cart,  and  the 
horse  pawing  and  scraping  the  gi'ound.  A  minute  later  she 
hears  the  sound  of  Captain  Montagu's  voice,  and  cranes  her  neck 
eagerly  behind  the  blind  to  get  one  more  glimpse  of  him.  His  face 
is  not  pale  nor  haggard,  as,  somehow,  she  half  expects  to  see  it,  as 
hers  is,  unless  her  mirror  tells  a  false  tale;  he  looks  cheery  and 
debonair,  and  gives  a  pleasant  farewell  smile  and  nod  to 'Sim- 
kins,  who  comes  out  to  wish  him  God-speed.  His  portmanteau 
and  bag  are  in;  he  lights  a  cigar,  takes  the  reins,  jumps  in,  and — 
is  gone.  Gone!  Diana  feels  acutely  at  this  moment  how  much 
of  pain  one  little  four-lettered  word  can  hold.  She  whispers  it 
painfully  to  herself  over  and  over  again.  Gone  from  her  for- 
ever! Will  he  remember  her  ?  Will  he  think  longingly,  ling- 
eringly,  as  she  does,  over  last  night's  scene  ? — or  is  it  only  a  repeti- 
tion, with  a  trifling  variation,  of  scenes  that  he  has  gone 
through  many  a  time  before?  Why,  why  did  he  make  that 
hateful  speech ? — why  tell  her  he  could  never  be  alone  with  a 


136  DIANA    CAREW. 

woman  without  making  love  to  her  ?  And  was  it  always  the 
same— the  man  in  play,  the  woman  in  earnest  ?  A  passage  from 
Madame  de  Stael  will  haunt  her:  "L'amourest  Vhistorie  de  la 
vie  des  femmes  c'est  un  episode  dans  cells  des  homines."  Over 
and  over  again  it  repeats  itself  as  she  plaits  her  long  hair  and 
dresses  tardily  for  breakfast — breakfast  that  was  so  cheery  yester- 
day, that  will  be  so  dull,  she  thinks,  sighing,  to-day.  It  is  a  bright, 
warm  day  again:  she  wishes  it  were  stormy  and  wet;  she  "would 
rather  hear  the  wind  howling  dismally  in  the  wide  chimney,  and 
the  rain  pattering  against  the  window-panes;  it  would  be  far 
more  in  consonance  with  her  feelings. 

"  I  cannot  stay  here  any  longer,"  she  says  to  herself.  I  will 
write  to-day  and  tell  papa  that  he  must  send  for  me  home." 

Sir  Hector  is  short  and  snappish  with  her  this  morning:  evi- 
dently he  is  ill  pleased  at  her  defalcation  the  previous  evening; 
but  his  son  tries  by  every  means  in  his  power  to  make  things 
pleasant. 

"Will  you  ride  this  morning?"  he  asks  her.  "  There  is  a 
charming  ride  for  a  sunny  morning  that  I  have  not  yet  taken 
you — all  through  shady  lanes  and  a  delicious  woods." 

She  shivers  a  little  at  the  last  word,  but  tries  to  smile  as  she 
assents  to  his  proposal.  Yes,  she  will  like  to  ride  very  much. 
Anything  for  a  change,  anything  to  take  her  out  of  herself. 
Hector  feels,  and  is,  quite  another  man  this  morning:  the  night- 
mare of  his  brother's  presence  being  removed,  he  can  smile  and 
be  genial  again,  and  the  ugly  curves  about  his  mouth  shrink 
away  to  nothing.  It  is  a  morning  to  make  any  one  blithe  who 
has  the  faintest,  smallest  reason  for  being  glad;  it  is  a  morning 
to  break  the  heart  of  any  one  who  has  a  secret  sorrow  gnawing 
at  his  breast.  When  Nature  is  so  passing  fair,  and  one  is  at  dis- 
cord with  her,  at  discord  with  happiness,  what  is  her  loveliness 
but  "  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune?" 

Is  this  grave,  silent  maiden,  who  forces  a  little  pale  smile  in 
answer  when  he  speaks  to  her,  the  joyous,  laughing  Diana  of 
three  days  ago?  so  full  of  life  and  spirits  that  she  would  have  let 
him  make  love  to  her,  had  he  willed  it,  out  of  sheer  high  spirits 
and  the  pleasure  of  life  ?  He  will  be  very  patient  with  her,  but 
as  they  ride  along  he  falls  to  wondering  what  charm  his  brother 
possesses  for  winning  smiles  and  gay  glad  words  from  every 
woman  he  comes  across. 

' '  I  never  in  my  life  heard  him  say  anything  that  was  not  ut- 
terly commonplace,"  he  thinks.  "Are  women,  even  good 
women,  really  so  shallow  as  to  be  caught  by  a  merely  handsome 
face  and  a  trick  of  manner  ?" 

"  What  did  you  do  yesterday  ?"  he  asks,  abruptly — so  abruptly 
that  the  quick  color  rushes  uncontrollably  through  her  fair 
face. 

"  How  you  startle  one!"  she  says,  with  some  pettishness. 

"Did  I?"  he  replies,  penitently.  "I  am  very  sorry.  I  am 
afraid  I  am  rather  a  bear." 

"Not  that,"  she  says,  recovering  herself;  "but  you  are  silent 
for  a  long  time,  and  then  you  burst  out  suddenly  upon  one  in  a 
way  that  takes  one's  breath  away." 


DIANA     CAREW.  137 

"  Do  I  ?"  he  exclaims,  eagerly.  ' '  I  am  so  sorry — awfully  sorry, 
as  the  correct  phrase  is  now.  But,"  returning  to  his  former 
question,  "  what  did  you  do  yesterday?" 

"I  don't  know"  (carelessly):  "nothing,  I  think— pottered 
about  the  garden." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Do  you  insist  upon  the  minutest  details?"  she  asks,  with  a 
look  he  does  not  quite  comprehend. 

"  I  don't  insist  on  anything,"  he  rejoins,  with  some  cold- 
ness. 

"  After  breakfast  I  sang  for  an  hour;  then  we  went  into  the 
garden  and  sat  under  a  tree,  and  your  brother  caught  three 
carp." 

She  does  not  tell  him  how;  and  he  chooses  to  imagine,  not 
being  a  fisherman,  nor  knowing  the  exceeding  difficulty  of 
catching  those  wily  fish  with  fly  or  worm,  that  Captain  Montagu 
angled  for  them  in  the  usual  manner,  ' '  a  worm  at  one  end  of 
the  rod,  a  fool  at  the  other."  He  reflects  to  himself  with  inward 
satisfaction  that  fishing  and  love-making  are  two  things  that  do 
not  go  very  well  together. 

"  And  after  that?" 

"  After  that "  (averting  her  face  and  pulling  leaves  off  the  low- 
hanging-boughs  within  her  reach),  "  oh,  after  that  we  strolled 
into  the  wood  to  look  at  the  primroses  and  hyacinths.  Have 
you  seen  them  ? — they  are  exquisite.  I  never  saw  so  many  to- 
gether before." 

"  Will  you  show  them  to  me  ?"  he  asks,  bending  a  little  toward 
her;  but  they  have  emerged  into  the  open,  and  she  puts  her 
horse  into  a  canter  without  answering.  Go  there  with  him!  not 
for  worlds.  Is  it  not  sacred  to  a  memory  ?  Let  no  unhallowed 
feet  profane  its  precincts. 

When  they  reach  home,  Diana  finds  Lady  Montagu  in  the 
drawing-room.  Is  it  her  fancy,  or  is  the  kiss  my  lady  bestows 
upon  her  a  shade  less  warm,  and  her  manner  a  little  less  affec- 
tionate than  usual  ? 

"  She  is  angry  with  me  because  her  favorite  son  has  gone," 
Diana  thinks,  forlornly.  "  Why  does  she  not  blame  the  right 
person  for  sending  him  away  ?  Am  I  not  tenfold  more  grieved 
than  she?  As  long  as  she  lives  he  will  always  be  the  same  to 
her,  and  now  "  (tears  rising  at  the  thought)  "he  is  never  to  be 
anything  more  to  me."  She  takes  her  embroidery,  and  the  two 
ladies  work  assiduously;  very  little  conversation  passes  between 
them.  After  lunch  they  drive  together,  but  still  Diana  feels 
painfully  that  she  is  under  a  cloud.  The  only  thing  that  could 
have  consoled  her  would  be  to  hear  Captain  Montagu's  mother 
speak  of  him,  and  she  has  never  even  so  much  as  mentioned  his 
name.  Well,  she  will  be  back  at  the  dear  old  home  soon;  why 
did  she  ever  leave  it  ?  She  has  written  to  her  father  telling  him 
that  she  is  homesick,  and  that  she  will  positively  return  home 
the  next  day  but  one  following.  He  must  write  to  her  by  return 
of  post  summoning  her  back,  but  if  not,  why,  she  will  go  with- 
out; but  in  any  case,  she  will  go  home.  This  is  an  unusual  dis- 
play of  willfulness  for  Miss  Diana;  but  then  it  is  a  very  unusual 


138  DIANA    CAREW. 

occasion.  All  through  the  drive  she  is  thinking  how  she  will 
broach  the  subject  to  her  hostess  (the  letter  is  safely  on  its  way 
by  now).  At  last  she  says,  rushing  at  her  subject: 

"  I  fear  I  must  be  leaving  you  very  soon,  Lady  Montagu.  I 
have  had  a — a  delightful  visit;  but  papa  will  be  missing  me 
sadly,  and  I  quite  expect  a  summons"  (feeling guilty),  "  perhaps 
to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

"  My  dear,  you  must  not  think  of  it,"  answers  my  lady,  with 
her  old  kind  manner.  "  What  should  we  do  without  you.  I,  for 
one,  cannot  spare  you.  Sir  Hector  will  be  quite  lost  without  his 
chess;  and  as  for  Hector " 

"  I  think  you  could  all  do  better  without  me  than  papa,"  in- 
terrupts Diana;  "  though  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  you  will 
miss  me." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  says  Lady  Montagu,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
"  your  papa  will  have  to  spare  you  altogether  some  day;  and  it 
is  better  to  accustom  him  to  the  idea  by  degrees." 

"  He  will  never  have  to  spare  me  for  long,"  answers  Diana, 
heaving  a  great  sigh,  but  speaking  in  a  resolute  tone  so  unusual 
to  her  that  Lady  Montagu  looks  askance  at  her. 

"  Young  girls  always  talk  like  that,"  she  says,  but  let  the  sub- 
ject drop.  Later  in  the  day  she  tells  Hector  what  has  passed. 
She  has  sent  for  him  to  her  boudoir,  and  he  has  answered  the 
summons  in  haste. 

He  looks  bitterly  pained. 

"  Oh,  mother!"  he  says,  at  last,  "  why  of  all  days  should  you 
have  had  a  headache  on  that  one  unlucky  day  ?" 

"  My  dear,"  answers  Lady  Montagu,  softly,  "I  think  you  take 
alarm  too  easily.  I  do  not  imagine  Diana  can  be  so  foolish  as  to 
think  anything  of  Charlie.  I  am  sure  she  is  too  ladylike  and 
right-minded  to  care  for  a  man  who  has  not  given  her  any  en- 
couragement. " 

"Encouragement!  Grant  me  patience!"  mutters  Hector,  in  a 
fierce  sotto  voce,  turning  sharply  to  the  window. 

"What  do  you  say?"  asks  Lady  Montagu,  mildly,  and  he 
makes  the  answer  that  people  generally  do  when  they  say  and 
mean  a  good  deal.  "  Nothing!" 

"  We  know,"  proceeds  my  lady,  gently,  all  unconscious  of  the 
daggers  she  is  planting  in  the  heart  of  her  first-born,  "  that 
Charlie  has  a  very  winning  manner;  but  no  girl,  I  should  hope, 
would  be  foolish  enough  to  construe  his  pleasant  little  caressing 
ways  into  any  serious  intentions.  He  is  the  same  to  every 
woman,  even  to  me"  (smiling  a  little.)  "  your  father  says." 

"You  remember  the  old  fable  of  the  boys  and  the  frog, 
mother."  Hector  interrupts,  roughly,  unconsciously  betraying 
the  fear  that  he  has  been  chary  of  acknowledging  even  to  him- 
self. "  What  is  play  to  you  is  death  to  me." 

"  You  do  not  think,  really,"  says  Lady  Montagu,  incredu- 
lously, %<  that  Diana  has  taken  a  serious  fancy  to  Charlie?" 

"Fancy!"  murmurs  Hector  to  himself:  "ay,  that  is  a  good 
word  to  apply  to  a  woman's  liking."  Then,  aloud: 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think;  my  heart  is  so  in  this  matter 
that  I  have  not  the  least  chance  of  judging  impartially.  Mother  " 


DIANA    CAREW.  189 

(earnestly),  "  I  have  not  courage  to  speak  to  her  myself.  I  love 
her  so  much  that  I  am  actually  afraid  of  her.  Will  you  not " 
(pleadingly)  "  speak  for  me — tell  her  how  intensely  I  love  her, 
and — and  "  (smiling  rather  doubtfully)  "  say  the  best  you  can  of 
me,  mother  ?  I  don't  think  I  am  the  sort  of  fellow  to  take  a 
girl's  fancy — that  was  the  word  you  used — and  yet  we  seemed 
to  get  on  very  well  before — before  I  went  away.  I  had  great 
hope  of  her  that  morning  when  she  went  to  the  station  with 
me." 

"  Of  course,  dear,"  Lady  Montagu  replies,  nervously,  "  I  will 
dp  anything  to  contribute  to  your  happiness;  but "  (smiling  up  in 
his  face)  "  I  hardly  think  a  mother  is  a  good  medium  for  a 
man's  love-making — in  this  country,  at  all  events.  Why  not 
tell  her  yourself?  Indeed  it  would  come  much  better  from 
you." 

He  shakes  his  head. 

"  I  cannot:  but  you — at  all  events  you  can  prepare  her  mind. 
Not  to-night — somehow,  I  do  not  think  she  would  take  it  so  well 
to-night — but  to-morrow.  Don't  refuse  me,  mother!" 

His  heart  is  in  his  voice,  and  so  his  mother  consents  to  the  un- 
thankful task.  On  the  following  afternoon,  when  she  and  Diana 
have  come  in  from  their  drive  and  are  sitting  together  over 
their  work,  Lady  Montagu,  with  a  little  ruffled,  uncomfortable 
sensation  at  her  heart,  broaches  the  theme. 

"  I  shall  be  very  lonely  this  time  to-morrow,"  she  says,  gently, 
lifting  her  sweet  gray  eyes  from  the  gorgeous  silks  with  which 
she  is  embroidering  a  great  damask  rose;  "  that  is,  if  you  per- 
sist in  leaving  us." 

"  You  are  very,  very  kind,"  Diana  replies,  answering  the  look 
•with  one  equally  pleasant  and  affectionate;  "and  I  shall  miss 
you  every  bit  as  much — perhaps  more.  You  know  "  (most  un- 
wittingly giving  the  very  cue  that  the  other  wants)  "  you  are 
the  first  person  who  ever  made  me  feel  the  want  of  a  mother." 

"Come  and  sit  by  me,"  says  Lady  Montagu,  holding  out  her 
hand,  and  Diana,  rising,  crosses  over  and  sits  beside  her  on  the 
sofa. 

Lady  Montagu  takes  one  of  her  hands  and  strokes  it  softly. 

"  Let  me  be  your  mother  in  reality,"  she  whispers,  softly,  look- 
ing in  Diana's  face  with  kind,  humid  eyes.  "  Let  me  plead  my 
eon's  cause  with  you." 

Diana's  head  droops;  the  tears  are  welling  in  her  eyes  too: 
what  would  she  ask  better  than  to  be  daughter  to  so  kind  and 
sweet  a  mother  ? — daughter,  but  not  in  the  way  she  means.  She 
is  silent,  but  her  silence  may  signify  anything,  and  Lady  Mon- 
tagu takes  heart  of  grace. 

"  Ever  since  Hector  first  saw  you,"  she  proceeds,  still  caress- 
ing the  slim  white  hand,  "he  has  loved  you — devotedly.  I 
never  thought  it  possible  he  could  come  to  care  so  much  for  any 
one."  In  truth,  his  worship  of  Diana  has  caused  his  mother 
much  secret  wonder.  "  Let  me  give  him  good  news:  may  I?'' 
she  urges.  "  I  need  not  praise  him  to  you:  you  have  seen  how 
good,  now  noble-minded  he  is,  and  I  feel  sure  he  would  make 
you  a  devoted  husband," 


140  DIANA    CAREW. 

Diana  looks  up  at  last.  She  has  been  wanting  all  the  time  to 
stop  her  friend,  but  has  not  known  how. 

••  Don't  think  me  ungrateful,"  she  says,  in  a  low,  constrained 
voice.  "  I  feel  deeply  the — the  honor  and  the  kindness  that  you 
and — and  Mr.  Montagu  do  me,  but  indeed  "  (turning  away  her 
head)  "it  is  impossible  for  me  to  think  of  him  except  as  a 
friend." 

"  My  love,"  cries  Lady  Montagu,  feeling  as  if  somehow  she  had 
fulfilled  her  mission  badly,  "  do  not  be  in  haste  to  decide.  You 
are  such  a  child — what  are  you  ?  only  eighteen — he  can  afford  to 
wait;  and  in  time — in  time,  I  hope  you  will  think  differently. 
Only  pray,  pray  do  not  say  positively  that  it  is  impossible:  he 
would  take  it  so  to  heart.  I  have  been  a  little  too  sudden:  it  is 
rather  shocking  to  the  feelings  of  a  young  girl  to  hear  so  solemn 
a  subject  broached  hastily.  I  remember  quite  well"  (a  pink 
blush  rising  in  her  delicate  face)  "  when  there  was  first  question 
of  my  marrying  Sir  Hector,  I  could  not  bring  myself  all  at  once 
to  the  idea.  Let  me  tell  him  that  you  will  think  about  it." 

"  No,"  Diana  answers,  in  a  low,  firm  voice;  "  it  would  only  be 
deceiving  him.  I  like,  I  respect  Mr.  Montagu  very  much,  but  / 
could  not  ever  care  for  him  enough  to  be  his  wife." 

Lady  Montagu,  glancing  at  her,  sees  that  she  is  not  to  be 
moved.  Ever  so  slight  a  feeling  of  anger  at  the  rejection  of  her 
son  creeps  into  her  kind  heart. 

"  I  think,"  she  says,  "  it  would  be  hardly  possible  for  you  to  be 
so  decided  in  your  refusal  of  my  son  unless  there  was  some  one 
else  whom  you  preferred.  Perhaps  there  is  already  some  one  of 
whom  we  have  not  heard,  who " 

"No,  no,  no!"  interrupts  Diana,  hastily,  turning  her  head 
away  to  hide  the  hot  blushes  that  are  dyeing  her  cheeks. 

"  My  love,"  whispers  Lady  Montagu,  urged  by  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, "I  may  be  wrong — I  hope  I  am,  but  I  do  trust  "(very 
earnestly)  "  that  you  are  not  allowing  any  thought  of — of  my 
younger  son  to  interfere  with  your  happiness.  It  would  be  ut- 
terly impossible  for  him,  with  his  extravagant  habits,  to  marry 
any  but  a  rich  wroman;  and — forgive  my  saying  so — that  little 
manner  of  his,  which  is  so  charming  and  caressing,  does  not 
really  mean  anything." 

Diana  rises  suddenly  and  walks  to  the  window,  and  as  sud- 
denly returns  and  confronts  Lady  Montagu. 

"  I  should  be  extremely  sorry.  Lady  Montagu,"  she  says,  with 
great  spirit,  "  for  you  to  labor  under  any  erroneous  impressions 
with  regard  to  my  feelings  for  Captain  Montagu.  I  have  as  lit- 
tle thought  of  marrying  your  younger  as  your  elder  son!"  And, 
flying  off  to  her  room  she  flings  herself  into  a  chair  in  a  passion 
of  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

NOT    TOLD   BY    DIANA. 

HECTOR,  who  is  reading  the  Times  in  the  library,  with  the  door 
ajar,  sees  a  slight  form  flit  hurriedly  by,  and  conjectures  that  his 
wother  has  fulfilled  her  mission.  He  throws  aside  the  paper,  for 


DIANA    CAREW.  141 

whose  contents  indeed  he  is  not  much  the  wiser,  and  goes  with 
slow  steps  toward  the  small  drawing-room;  with  slow  steps,  not 
because  he  is  not  eager,  but  because,  full-grown  man  as  he  is, 
accredited  with  the  coolest,  most  perfect  self-control,  his  heart 
is  beating  loudly,  and  he  is  as  nervous  as  a  girl  at  her  first 
"  drawing-room."  He  pauses,  with  his  hand  upon  the  door,  feel- 
ing positively  sick  with  apprehension.  His  life  seems  to  har>g 
upon  the  fiat  of  this  slim  young  girl.  In  another  moment  he  has 
read  his  doom  in  his  mother's  eyes,  even  before  she  has  had  time 
to  unclose  her  lips. 

"I  knew  it— I  was  quite  sure  of  it,"  he  utters,  very  calmly, 
standing  in  front  of  her.  "  Still,  I  should  like  to  know  what  she 
said,  what  reason  she  gave," 

"  She  said,"  replies  his  mother,  slowly,  turning  over  in  her 
mind  how  best  to  soften  the  narration — "  she  said  she  liked  you 
very  much  as  a  friend,  that  she  admired  and  respected  you, 
but " 

"  But,"  says  Hector,  finishing  the  sentence  for  her,  "  she 
could  never  care  sufficiently  for  me  to  marry  me.  Was  that  it  ?' 

"  Yes  "  (reluctantly). 

"  Did  she  say  "  (faltering  a  little)  "  that  she  could  not  care  for 
me  because  she — she'loved  some  one  else  ?" 

"  No,  indeed," replies  his  mother,  eagerly;  "and  I  am  afraid 
I  have  offended  her  by  hinting  about  Charlie.  She  sprung  up 
with  such  spirit,  I  could  not  have  fancied  it  was  in  her,  and  told 
me  that  she  had  as  little  thought  of  one  of  you  as  the  other;  and 
then  she  rushed  out  of  the  room ." 

"  I  wish  to  God,"  says  Hector,  bitterly,  turning  away,  "  that  I 
had  never  set  eyes  on  her!  Mother  "  (confronting  her  again 
sharply).  "  you  are  very  good  and  religious:  do  you  really  and 
honestly  believe,  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  that  there  is  some  benef- 
icent purpose  in  our  being  denied  everything  we  want  and  care 
for  here,  or  do  you  think  it  pleases  the  Almighty  to  torture  us  as 
a  cat  likes  to  play  with  a  mouse  ?" 

Then  he  turns  on  his  heel  and  goes,  before  Lady  Montagu, 
who  looks  deeply  shocked,  has  time  to  utter  a  syllable. 

Diana  appears  at  dinner  with  a  pale  face,  but  perfectly  com- 
posed. This  is  the  last  evening  she  will  ever  spend  at  Alford, 
and  she  musters  the  best  grace  she  can  to  go  through  it.  After 
all.  they  have  meant  kindly  by  her.  But  she  feels  dreadfully 
embarrassed  at  meeting  both  Hector  and  his  mother,  and  devotes 
her  conversation  during  the  dreary  ceremony  for  the  most  part 
to  Sir  Hector,  who,  unconscious  of  what  has  happened,  and  still 
looking  upon  her  as  his  prospective  daughter-in-law,  is  pleased 
to  be  very  gracious.  Little  does  the  proud  old  autocrat  dream 
that  a  chit  like  this,  without  a  half-penny  to  her  fortune,  could 
have  the  presumption  to  refuse  his  heir.  He  does  not  even  know 
that  she  contemplates  leaving  Alford  next  day. 

"  I  am  going  to  let  you  off  to-night."  he  tells  her,  with  a  frosty 
smile.  "  I  have  business  with  my  bailiff;  so  we  must  forego  our 
game  for  once.'' 

"  For  a  long  time,  then,  I  fear,"  says  Diana,  quietly,  "  as  I  am 
going  away  to-morrow.'' 


142  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  Going  to-morrow!"  cries  the  old  autocrat.  "  Pooh!  pshaw! 
nonsense!  impossible!  not  likely  we  ai'e  going  to  let  you  run 
away  in  such  a  hurry!"  His  tone  is  a  curious  compound  of  the 
imperative,  benevolent,  and  patronizing. 

"  My  father  wants  me,"  answers  Diana. 

"  Tell  him  he  must  do  without  you  a  little  longer.  There  Are 
other  people  who  have  claims  besides  fathers,  eh,  Hector?"  (with 
a  facetious  glance  at  his  son). 

Being  behind  the  scenes,  we  may  conjecture  the  agreeable 
effect  produced  by  this  speech  upon  the  other  members  of  the 
party.  But  Hector  comes  swiftly  to  the  rescue. 

*'  We  shall  all  miss  Miss  Carew  very  much,"  he  says,  "  but  her 
father  can  perhaps  spare  her  even  less." 

"Heyday!"  cries  the  baronet,  raising  his  eyebrows;  "you 
young  men  take  things  very  coolly  in  these  days,  it  seems  to 
me.  It  was  not  like  that  with  our  generation — eh,  my  lady?" 

Hector  looked  significantly  at  his  mother,  and  she,  hastily 
gathering  up  her  fan  and  scent-bottle,  beats  a  hasty  retreat. 

Diana  passes  a  dreary  half-hour  in  the  drawing-room,  looking 
out  of  the  window  at  the  bright  moonlight,  and  wishing  she  were 
out  in  it.  Then  Hector  comes  in.  He  feels  embarrassed,  and 
knows  that  she  is  feeling  the  same;  he  does  not  want  to  add  to  it. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  out?"  he  asks,  politely,  seeing  her 
wistful  glance  out  of  the  window ;  and  then,  as  she  hesitates,  he 
adds,  quickly,  "  Not  unless  you  feel  inclined." 

"  Yes,"  she  answers;  "  let  us  go." 

Since  she  must  be  alone  with  him — for  Lady  Montagu  asleep 
counts  as  no  one — as  well  out  in  the  cool,  pleasant  night  as  in 
this  warm  room,  and  if  he  still  has  anything  to  say  to  her,  why, 
let  him  say  it  once  for  all,  and  understand  finally  that  she  can 
be  nothing  more  to  him  than  a  friend.  But  as  they  pace  up  and 
down  the  gravel  walk  together,  he  makes  no  sign;  his  conversa- 
tion is  perfectly  commonplace.  Suddenly,  he  says: 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  wood  and  see  the  primroses  you  told  me 
of,  by  moonlight.'' 

"  No,"  she  answers  resolutely.  "  There  might  be  snakes,"  she 
adds,  in  answer  to  his  inquiring  glance.  "  I  should  like  to  go  in 
the  boat." 

They  take  their  way  across  the  short  green  turf  to  the  lake, 
and  stand  for  a  moment  by  its  margin  looking  into  it.  Still  and 
clear  it  lies  like  a  vast  burnished  mirror,  and  in  it  are  reflected 
the  trees  and  tall  shrubs;  so  bright  it  is,  they  can  see  in  its 
clear  depths  the  pink  May  blossoms,  the  towering  lilacs,  and  the 
gold  showers  of  laburnum.  No  wonder  the  moon  loves  to  see 
herself  mirrored  in  it.  Her  pale  face  looks  more  radiantly  bright 
there  than  where  she  rides  aloft  in  the  blue  heavens;  now  and 
again  a  rustling  little  breeze  comes  rippling  along  and  turns  her 
into  a  flood  of  sparkling  diamonds. 

Hector  brings  out  the  boat  and  lays  the  cushions  in  it;  then  he 
helps  her  in.  There  is  some  subtle  influence  in  the  gliding  of  a 
boat  through  still  waters:  it  has  a  lulling,  dream-compelling 
effect;  one  cannot  feel  actually  miserable.  Diana  leans  back 
among  the  cushions;  she  is  not  unhappy  now;  young  blood  runs 


DIANA     CAREW.  143 

in  her  veins,  and  she  is  keenly  conscious  of,  an_  acted  upon  al- 
ways by,  Nature's  beauty.     As  in  a  dream,  she  floats  along,  see- 
ing the  dark  fir-trees  standing  out  against  the  clear  sky,  and  the 
pointed  tops  of  the  tall  shrubs,  the  glittering  stars  and  the  bright 
moon,  and  hearing  almost  unconsciously  the  nightingale, 
•'  Shedding  his  song  upon  height,  upon  hollow, 
From  tawny  body  and  small,  sweet  mouth, 
Feeding  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire." 

Hector  disturbs  her  by  never  a  word.  He  has  grown  strangely 
humble:  he  is  content  that  she  shall  not  be  unhappy  in  his  pres- 
ence. And  so  they  glide  along  together,  this  strangely  silent 
couple — the  girl  with  her  fair  face  and  star-like  eyes  turned 
heavenward,  and  the  man's  dark  face  shadowed  by  his  hat  bent 
down  on  her.  She  cannot  see  that  he  is  looking  at  her— she  does 
not  feel  it  to-night;  she  is  dreamily  content  with  the  night's 
beauty  and  the  pleasant  gliding  motion.  The  oars  dip  steadily 
in  the  water  and  come  out  flashing  and  shining  with  diamond's 
dropping  from  them.  Hector  goes  on  rowing  unweariedly,  only 
dreading  the  breaking  of  the  spell.  After  a  long  time,  Diana 
says,  reluctantly: 

''  Is  it  not  getting  very  late  ?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  in  ?"  he  asks. 

"  I  suppose  one  ought  to."  And  he  rows  her  to  the  bank  with- 
out another  word.  As  she  gets  out,  her  foot  slips.  Hector 
catches  her  in  his  arms  and  strains  her  for  a  moment  to  his 
beating  heart.  She  tears  herself  away  from  him,  and  stands 
trembling  on  the  bank,  feeling  angry  and  repellent.  He  springs 
after  her,  and  drawing  her  unwilling  hand  through  his  arm, 
leads  her  a  few  paces  to  a  bench  under  an  old  tree,  whose 
gnarled  and  twisted  branches  overhang  the  water.  He  had  not 
meant  to  say  one  word  to  her  of  his  "love  when  he  brought  her 
out,  but  it  is  too  strong  for  him. 

"  Can  I  do  nothing  to  make  you  care  for  me?"  he  says,  in  a 
deep,  tremulous  voice. 

Diana  is  very  sorry  for  him,  and  she  is  tender-hearted;  she 
would  not  willingly  give  pain  to  any  living  thing,  much  less  a 
man  who  pays  her  the  compliment  of  loving  her. 

"  I  do  like  you  very  much,"  she  urges,  softly.  "  Will  you  not 
be  content  with  my  friendship  ?" 

"  Friendship!"  he  says,  with  impatient  scorn;  "  what  is  friend- 
ship ?  If  a  dozen  men  came  to  you  to-morrow  and  asked  for 
your  friendship,  you  would  accord  it  as  kindly  and  politely  as 
you  do  to  me  to-night.  How  am  I,  who  love  you  with  all  my 
soul,  the  better  for  your  friendship?  Pshaw!  it  is  a  thing  that 
cannot  exist  between  men  and  women  until  they  both  have  one 
foot  in  the  grave." 

"  Oh,  indeed  it  can,"  Diana  answers,  earnestly.  "  Friendship 
means  a  great  deal;  it  is  (dropping  her  voice)  "  the  next  thing  to 
love.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  like  you,  and 
honor  and  respect  you  besides;  how  could  I  feel  the  same  toward 
strangers  of  whom*  I  know  nothing  r" 

"Honor  and  respect!"  he  cries,  impatiently,  only  answering 
one  part  of  her  little  speech:  "  that  its  what  one  gives  the  aged, 


144  DIANA    CAREW. 

what  one  gives  one's  parents — at  least "  (with  a  grim  smile) 
"  some  of  us  do.  What  satisfaction  do  you  think  it  can  give  a 
man  who  craves  passionately  for  your  love,  for  something  as  far 
removed  from  mere  honor  and  respect  as  light  is  from  darkness  ? 
Oh,  child!"  (bitterly),  "  pray  God  you  may  never  ask  for  bread 
and  be  given  a  stone!" 

Diana  looks  sorrowfully  at  him. 

"  You  do  not  believe  I  would  pain  you  willingly,  she  says: 
"  but  how  is  it  possible  to  compel  love?  You  say  you  love  me; 
well"  (earnestly),  "if  to  night  some  other  woman  came  and  be- 
sought you  for  your  love,  could  you  give  it  her  ?" 

She  speaks  all  unconscious  that  she  is  betraying  herself. 

"  Are  the  cases  analogous  ?"  he  says,  sharply.  "  Is  it  because 
you  have  given  your  love  elsewhere  that  you  cannot  give  it  to 
me?" 

Seeing  the  pit  which  she  has  unwittingly  digged  for  herself, 
and  into  which  she  has  so  untowardly  fallen,  Diana  colors  deeply 
and  is  silent, 

"  Is  it  so?"  he  asks,  more  sharply  still. 

"  And  if  it  is!"  she  says,  looking  up  defiantly  from  the  corner 
into  which  he  has  driven  her. 

"  Then  I  have  no  more  to  say,"  he  answers,  feeling  the  grasp 
of  an  icy  hand  clutching  at  his  heart. 

There  follows  a  short,  unbroken  silence;  then  he  says,  almost 
pathetically: 

"  You  are  very  young,  child;  you  have  not  seen  anything  of 
life  or  the  world.  Just  now  you  offered  me  your  friendship. 
Well,  let  me  make  use  of  it  this  once  to  say  something  to  you. 
I  am  not  impartial,  you  may  think  and  say:  I  know  it;  but  I 
know,  too,  that  any  real  friend  would  tell  you  the  same.  I  am 
not  going  to  mention  any  name:  you  need  not  be  angry  with 
me.  Suppose  you,  who  are  very  young  and  innocent  and  un- 
worldly, come  across  a  man  who  is  none  of  the  three — at  all 
events,  not  the  two  latter;  suppose  that  he,  with  his  eyes  wide 
open,  having  no  serious  thought  of  you,  makes  protestations  of 
love  which  you  in  your  guileless  heart  may  believe  sincere,  but 
which  others  know,  rhich  he  knows  himself,  mean  nothing  but 
his  own  selfish  desire  to  gratify  a  pleasant  feeling;  would  your 
friend  advise  you  to  give  your  pure  gold  in  exchange  for  hig 
spurious  coin  ?" 

Diana  is  passionately  indignant — indignant  as,  in  her  eighteen 
years  of  life,  she  has  never  been  before.  Carried  away  by  her 
anger,  she  makes  him  an  answer  that  in  her  cooler  moments  she 
would  not  have  made  for  all  the  world. 

"  You  need  mention  no  name!"  she  cries,  passionately;  "you 
are  speaking  of  your  brother.  At  all  events,  I  never  heard  him 
breathe  a  syllable  against  you.  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  try  and 
humble  me  by  saying  that  he  had  no  thought  of  me,  no  intention 
but  to  gratify  himself,  but  you  are  quite  wrong.  Captain  Mon- 
tagu asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  for  his  own  sake  I  refused 
him." 

Hector  stares  stupidly  at  her. 

"  When,  may  I  ask?"  he  says,  in  a  low,  smothered  voice. 


DIANA    CAREW.  145 

"  The  night  before  he  went  away." 

"  So,"  says  Hector,  between  his  teeth,  "  my  honorable  brother, 
who  went  away  to  leave  the  field  clear  for  me." 

Diana  is  on  her  swift  way  to  the  house,  but  he  does  not  attempt 
to  follow  her.  For  the  moment  his  fierce  wrath  has  swallowed 
up  his  love. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
DIANA'S     STORY. 

I  AM  back  again  at  home— glad,  most  glad,  to  be  there.  Every- 
thing pleases  me — even  our  simplicity  and  poverty;  the  absence 
of  that  heavy,  wearisome  state  which  oppressed  me  at  Alford  is 
in  itself  delightful;  but  pleasantest  change  of  all  is  my  father's 
kind,  gentle  manner,  which  to  my  mind  has  far  more  of  dignity 
in  it  than  Sir  Hector's  pompous  bluster. 

I  can  scarcely  take  my  eyes  off  his  dear  face  as  we  sit  tete-a-tete 
over  our  roast  chicken;  very  often  he  looks  over  at  me,  too,  and 
when  our  eyes  meet  we  exchange  a  friendly  smile. 

"  It  is  good  to  go  away  sometimes,"  I  say,  meditatively,  with 
my  elbows  on  the  table,  in  happy  freedom  from  all  restraint 
(fancy  putting  one's  elbows  on  Sir  Hector's  dinner-table!).  "  It 
makes  one  so  glad  to  come  back." 

"  Does  it,  Di?"  remarks  papa,  looking  pleased.  "  I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  was  afraid  it  would  have  quite  a  con- 
trary effect." 

"  If  you  only  knew,"  I  say,  with  a  little  air  of  superior  wis- 
dom, "  how  dreadful  it  is  to  have  three  or  four  immense  men 
standing  about,  watching  every  morsel  you  eat,  and  snatching 
up  your  plate  almost  before  you  have  put  down  your  knife  and 
fork!  It  is  delightful  music  to  me  now  to  hear  Sally  clatter  the 
plates  and  shuffle  about  in  her  slip-shod  way.  And  then  to  hear 
that  dreadful  old  man  bullying  and  worrying  them  all  the  time, 
it  made  me  so  nervous  at  first  I  could  hardly  eat  anything." 

"The  dreadful  old  man  is  Sir  Hector,  I  presume?"  smiles 
papa. 

"Yes — Sir  Hector.  What  a  capital  name  for  him!  It  was 
very  thoughtful  of  his  godfather  and  godmother  in  his  baptism 
to  give  him  that  name;  though  they  could  hardly  have  told  at 
the  time  how  appropriate  it  would  be,  could  they  ?  He  does 
nothing  but  hector  from  morning  till  night." 

"  But,"  says  papa,  "  his  son  has  the  same  name;  is  it  as  appro- 
priate in  his  case  ?" 

"  No,  no!"  I  cry,  with  energy,  more  anxious  to  defend  him 
because  I  have  unwittingly  done  him  wrong;  "  not  in  the  very 
least.  I  never  heard  any  one  more  courteous  to  his  inferiors." 

"  I  should  have  thought  so,"  papa  answers,  with  a  little  air  of 
satisfaction.  "  I  should  be  much  mistaken  in  him  if  he  were 
not  a  gentleman;  and  a  gentleman  is  always  considerate  and 
courteous  to  those  beneath  him.  And  Lady  Montagu— you  liked 

V?" 

" I loved  lierr  I  reply,  with  enthusiasm;  "the  dearest,  sweet- 
est, kindest  old  lady  I  ever  saw." 


146  DIANA    CAREW. 

"She  can  hardly  come  under  the  denomination  of  an  old 
lady,"  remarks  papa.  "  She  cannot  be  more  than  fifty -one  or 
two." 

"  Well,  no,"  I  assent,  "  perhaps  hardly  old:  but  her  hair  is  sil- 
very, and  she  is  rather  an  invalid,  and  altogether  she  gives  one 
the  idea  of  being — well,  not  young." 

"  Sir  Hector  is  a  good  many  years  older,"  says  papa.  "  But  I 
do  not  think  he  ever  seemed  a  young  man — never  since  I  re- 
member him;  he  was  always  stiff  and  pompous,  and  rather  bald. 
She  was  a  very  lovely  girl  when  he  married  her.  I  remember 
losing  my  heart  to  her  when  I  was  a  boy  in  jackets  just  before 
they  were  married.  I  believe "  (laughing)  "  I  had  serious 
thoughts  of  asking  her  to  fly  with  me,  and  of  fighting  a  duel 
with  him  afterward.  I  suppose  he  has  quite  succeeded  in  crush- 
ing all  spirit  out  of  her  by  this  time." 

"  Horrid  old  wretch!"  I  exclaim,  with  vindictive  energy.  "It 
would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  everybody  if  he  were  to  break 
his  neck!  The  people  about  hate  him;  and  Mr.  Montagu,  I  am 
sure,  would  make  an  excellent  landlord." 

"I  am  sure  he  would,"  says  papa,  with  approving  warmth. 

"  Papa,"  I  say,  looking  at  him  inquisitively,  "  what  makes  you 
so  fond  of  Mr.  Montagu  ?" 

"Is  it  surprising  that  I  should  like  him?"  asks  papa.  "Do 
not  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answer,  indifferently. 

There  the  subject  drops,  and  we  fall  to  talking  about  Curly. 

The  following  day  I  observe  that  papa  is  preoccupied.  He 
does  not  talk  much,  and  ever  and  anon  I  feel  his  eyes  fixed  on 
me,  and  I  fancy  he  sighs.  It  is  a  wet,  cold  day,  and  in  the  even- 
ing we  have  a  fire.  I  sit  down  on  the  hearth  in  my  favorite  at- 
titude, with  my  arm  resting  on  papa's  knees.  He  is  silent,  and  I, 
too,  am  seeing  pictures  in  the  live  coals,  and  thinking  unprofita- 
ble thoughts.  Presently  I  feel  his  hand  upon  my  head,  and  hear 
his  voice. 

"  Di,"  it  says,  "  what  made  you  refuse  Mr.  Montagu?" 

My  heart  leaps  into  my  mouth;  for  the  first  time  it  strikes  me 
that  I  am  not  the  only  person  whom  the  matter  concerns. 

"How  do  you  know  that  I  did?"  I  ask,  evasively,  keeping 
my  face,  which  vies  with  them,  turned  toward  the  glowing 
coals. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning — a  most  manly, 
straightforward,  and,  I  must  say,  touching  letter." 

"Where  is  it?"  I  ask,  in  a  faltering  voice,  as  the  dreadful 
thought  crosses  me  that  he  will  have  laid  the  blame  upon  his 
brother.  And  what  account,  I  think  with  shame,  can  I  give 
papa  of  what  has  taken  place  between  him  and  me  ? 

"  Here  is  the  letter,"  says  papa,  gravely,  drawing  it  from  his 
pocket;  and  with  trembling  hands  and  downcast  eyes  I  take  it 
and  read  thus: 

"  DEAR  MR.  CAREW, — When  you  gave  permission  for  your 
daughter  to  visit  my  mother,  you  also  consented,  if  there  ap- 
peared any  chance  of  my  suit  being  successful,  to  my  asking  her 
to  become  iny  wife.  I  have  ventured  to  put  my  fortune  to  tha 


DIANA    CAREW.  14? 

test,  not,  I  must  frankly  own  because  Miss  Carew  gave  me  any 
encouragement,  but  because,  being  constantly  in  her  presence, 
and  seeing  how  altogether  sweet  and  lovable  she  is,  I  could  no 
longer  control  my  impatience.  I  spoke  my  heart  to  her,  I  fear, 
without  due  reflection,  and  I  cannot  but  blame  myself  for  my 
haste  and  warmth,  which  may  perhaps  have  repelled  her.  But 
after  what  passed  between  us  I  no  longer  dare  encourage  the 
hope  of  being  more  to  her  than  a  friend.  It  is  my  own  fault,  of 
course — I  am  not,  I  fear,  a  man  calculated  to  inspire  love  in  a 
young,  high-spirited  girl— and  yet  not  my  fault,  for  God  knows 
if  I  could  change  anything  in  myself  to  make  me  more  pleasing 
to  one  whom  I  love  so  devotedly,  no  effort  would  seem  to  me  too 
great.  My  feeling  for  Miss  Carew  will  never  undergo  any 
change;  that  need  be  no  matter  for  speculation;  it  is  a  certainty 
on  which  I  should  like  her  to  rely,  though  not  to  vex  herself 
with.  If  it  were  possible  for  her  ever  to  entertain  a  warmer 
feeling  for  me,  I  want  her  to  know  that  my  love  for  her  will  al- 
ways be  what  it  is  now.  I  go  abroad  to-night;  at  some  future 
time,  when  I  am  better  able  than  I  should  be  now  to  endure  the 
sight  of  her,  knowing  that  my  love  is  hopeless,  you  will,  I  trust, 
let  me  visit  your  house  on  the  old  friendly  terms.  Meanwhile, 
believe  me  always  most  sincerely  yours, 

"  HECTOR  MONTAGU. 

"  P.S. — I  have  read  over  the  few  cold,  formal  lines  that  I  have 
written;  they  must  remain  what  they  are,  lest  I  should  be  un- 
manned by  writing  what  is  in  my  heart." 

I  read  the  letter  carefully.  It  strikes  me  with  a  cold  chill;  to 
me  it  does  not  seem  a  natural  letter  from  a  man  who  loved  pas- 
sionately, despairingly.  I  do  not  even  feel  sorry  for  him;  my 
chief  sensation  is  one  of  thankfulness  that  he  has  avoided  all 
mention  of  his  brother,  and  a  slightly  aggrieved  feeling  against 
papa  for  having  consented  to  Mr.  Montagu's  proposal  without  the 
slightest  hint  to  me.  I  understand  it  all  now,  why  at  Alford 
they  looked  upon  me  as  Hector's  property.  Papa  had  given  con- 
sent, so  they  thought  mine  was  sure  to  follow;  it  must  be  a  set- 
tled affair.  I  do  not  return  the  letter  after  reading  it,  but  sit 
staring  at  the  fire.  A  mist  gathers  before  my  eyes.  At  last  I 
say,  reproachfully: 

"  Papa,  how  could  you  ?'' 

"  How  could  I  do  what,  Di?" 

"  Let  me  go  there,  knowing  all  the  time Why  did  you  not 

ask  me  ?  I  should  have  told  you  the  truth  that  I  never  could  care 
for  him  except  as  a  friend.  If  I  had  known,  nothing  would  have 
induced  me  to  go  to  Alford." 

"  That  is  what  I  felt  sure  of,"  answers  papa,  gravely.  "  To 
tell  a  girl  that  she  is  going  on  a  visit  with  such  an  end  in  view 
is  naturally  to  make  her  utterly  disinclined  to  it.  And  yet" 
(sighing)  "  that  was  the  end  in  view.  I  saw  that  he  was  de- 
voted to  you;  I  knew  that  if  you  married  him  it  would  relieve 
me  of  the  anxiety  that  has  always  tormented  me  about  your 
future;  and  I  believed  firmly  that  seeing  him  at  home  and  be- 
coming aware  of  the  good  qualities  which  I  know  he  possesses, 
and  wlu'ch  his  natural  shyness  impels  him  to  hide  in  society, 


148  DIANA    CAREW. 

you  would  come  to  care  for  him.  I  think  still  that  such  would 
have  been  the  case  had  he  not,  as  he  admits,  been  in  too  great  a 
hurry. 

"  Never!"  I  cry,  emphatically,  "  never!" 

"  I  wonder,"  says  papa,  wearily,  "what  perverse  fate  makes 
girls  always  go  dead  against  their  parents'  wishes  in  these  mat- 
ters ?" 

"  And  I  wonder,"  I  answer,  mournfully,  "  why  parents  never 
think  their  daughters  can  have  any  feeling  of  their  own  about 
the  men  they  are  to  marry  ?  Papa  "  (stealing  one  hand  into  his), 
"  am  I  a  burden  to  you  V  (teal's  springing  into  my  eyes).  "  Do  you 
want  to  get  rid  of  me  ?" 

"  God  forbid,  child!"  says  papa,  his  eyes  becoming  misty  too, 
as  he  strokes  my  head  fondly.  "It  is  an  unfortunate  business, 
but  we  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

So  the  subject  drops. 

Life  wears  a  changed  aspect  for  me  since  that  visit  to  Warring- 
ton.  Before  then  I  was  as  blithe  as  a  bird — not  a  care  had  I; 
and  now  my  heart  is  often  heavy  and  full  of  strange,  passionate 
longings.  Sometimes  I  almost  hate  my  life.  I  weary  so  bitterly 
for  the  sight  of  one  face,  for  the  sound  of  one  voice:  and  as  yet 
only  one  week  has  passed  since  I  left  Alford.  My  simple  home 
pursuits  have  lost  their  interest  for  me.  I  go  through  them  as 
dull,  dreary  duties.  My  books,  too,  no  longer  have  the  same 
charm;  now  that  I  have  my  own  romance,  all  others  seem  stale 
and  flat. 

One  afternoon  I  have  been  for  a  long  walk.  I  want  to  tire  my 
body  in  order  to  benumb  my  mind,  and  I  come  in  wearied  out 
and  fling  myself  into  a  chair. 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  exclaims  Gay,  reproachfully,  "  whatever's 
come  to  you,  to  make  you  go  tag-ragging  about  the  country, 
wearing  yourself  to  a  shadow  ?  Why,  it's  my  belief  you've  fell 
away  pounds  and  pounds  since  you  came  back  from  Alford,  only 
a  week  since.  I  misdoubt  me  "  (with  a  shrewd  glance) "  as  you've 
left  a  little  bit  of  your  heart  behind  you  there." 

"  You  are  an  old  goose!"  I  answer.  "  Get  me  some  tea:  I  am 
dying  for  something  to  eat.  When  people  are  in  love,  you 
know,"  I  add,  with  a  somewhat  lugubrious  smile,  "they  don't 
want  to  eat." 

"  Don't  tell  me!"  returns  Gay,  with  scorn.  "  I've  seen  many 
a  score  of  folks  in  love  in  my  time,  and  I  never  know'd  it  to  in- 
terfere with  their  appetites  yet;  that  I  didn't.  But  all  through 
your  being  out  tiring  yourself  for  no  good,  you've  gone  and 
missed  a  grand  visitor  as  wanted  most  particular  to  see  you." 

A  pang  of  expectation  goes  through  my  heart;  it  takes  my 
breath  away.  Oh,  if  it  should  be 

"  Who  was  it?"  I  ask,  in  a  quivering  voice,  doing  violence  to 
myself  not  to  seem  eager. 

"  Well,  it  was  Mrs.  Warrington,"  returns  Gay,  and  my  heart 
sinks  to  its  proper  level. 

"  Mrs.  Warrington,"  I  repeat,  musingly.  "  I  am  sorry  I  was 
out.  Did  she  see  papa  ?" 


DIAXA    CAREW.  149 

"Ay,  that  she  did;  she  was  with  him  the  best  part  of  an  hour, 
I  reckon.'' 

"Where  is  he ?"  I  inquire. 

"  In  the  study.  Now,  nay  dear,  do  wait  until  you've  had  your 
tea  "  (seeing  that  I  am  hastily  about  to  go). 

"  I  shall  be  back  directly,"  I  answer,  with  my  hand  on  the 
door. 

"  So  you  have  had  a  visitor!"  I  cry,  breaking  in  suddenly  upon 
^apa. 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  rather  gravely. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  I  ask,  quickly  divining  by  his  face  that 
Joraething  is  wrong. 

'  She  brought  rather  a  shocking  piece  of  news,"  says  papa. 

I  feel  myself  turning  ghostly  white. 

Why  is  it  that  my  first  thought  is  always  of  him  now? 

"  What  is  it:"  I  ask,  with  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Sir  Hector  Montagu  was  thrown  from  his  horse  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday,  and  is  not  expected  to  live.  He  has  not  spoken 
since. 

I  am  intensely  shocked,  and  forget,  as  one  always  does  on 
such  occasions,  how  little  I  had  liked  him.  My  only  feeling  is 
one  of  sympathy  and  distress  at  his  being  overtaken  by  so 
awful  a  fate. 

"His  son,"  continues  papa,  not  looking  at  me,  "has  gone  off 
suddenly  abroad,  and  they  do  not  quite  know  where  to  find  him. 
That  adds  greatly  to  poor  Lady  Montagu's  distress." 

I  hang  my  head  and  feel  guilty,  though  indeed  I  scarcely 
know  why  I  should. 

"  The  other  son  was  telegraphed  for,  and  has  arrived." 

To  this  I  make  no  answer.  Although  he  is  so  near  me,  I  know 
there  is  as  little  chance  of  my  seeing  him  as  if  he  were  in  Kamt- 
chatka. 

"  But,"  says  papa,  changing  his  tone  and  looking  at  me  with  a 
slight  smile,  "  Mrs.  Warrington's  errand  to-day  was  of  a  cheer- 
ful nature:  though  I  have  hardly  prepared  you  very  well  to  re- 
ceive it.  What  do  you  think  she  came  for,  Di  ?" 

I  shake  my  head,  not  feeling  in  the  humor  to  guess  or  be 
expectant. 

"  I  do  not  know,  unless  it  was  to  invite  us  there,"  I  reply; 
"  and  that  is  not  very  probable,  as  Claire  told  me  she  was  going 
to  London  for  six  weeks  almost  immediately." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  her  wanting  to  take  you  with  her?" 

I  feel  my  eyes  opening  very  wide,  but  my  voice  fails  me  for 
sheer  surprise.  Then,  as  one  or  two  important  facts  occur  to 
me,  I  return  from  wonder-land,  and  remark,  calmly: 

"  Of  course  you  told  her  it  was  impossible?" 

"  But  suppose  I  thought  it  was  not  altogether  impossible?"  re- 
turns papa,  looking  a  little  amused:  "  what  then?" 

"  What  then?"  I  echo,  placing  myself  on  his  knee,  and  draw- 
ing the  dark  hair  lovingly  back  from  his  white  forehead.  "  I 
should  think  my  dearest  dad  was  qualifying  for  the  county 
asylum." 

"  I  should  have  been  inclined  to  think  so  myself  a  few  hours 


150  DIANA     CAREW. 

ago,"  he  returns;  "but  Mrs.  Warrington  has  reduced  my  ob- 
jections to  nothing,  and  I  have  almost  given  consent." 

"  Mrs.  Warrington  must  be  a  very  wonderful  woman,"  I  re- 
mark, amazed.  •'  But,  papa,  you  must  know  quite  well,  when 
we  come  to  think  it  over  calmly,  that  it  is  quite  impossible  on 
account  of  money,  if  nothing  else." 

"  Listen,  and  judge  for  yourself.  Mrs.  Warrington  was  going 
to  bring  out  one  of  her  nieces  this  year;  she  had  already  pre- 
sented her  at  court,  and  was  to  have  been  in  London  now  to 
chaperon  her.  Three  weeks  ago  the  young  lady  eloped  with  the 
curate,  much  to  the  indignation  of  the  family,  and  the  aunt's 
chagrin.  '  Now,'  said  Mrs.  Warrington,  very  pleasantly,  '  I  am 
getting  an  old  woman,  but  sad  to  say,  I  am  as  fond  of  gayety  as 
ever,  though  I  have  sufficient  discretion  to  see  that  it  does  not 
look  well  for  me  to  be  going  about  to  all  sorts  of  gay  parties 
without  some  apparent  excuse.  That  is  why  I  always  undertake 
every  year  to  bring  out  some  pretty  girl  of  my  acquaintance.  I 
won't  have  a  plain  one.  So,'  she  finished,  '  if  you  will  intrust 
your  daughter  to  my  care,  you  will  be  conferring  a  real  favor 
upon  me,  and  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  her,  at  the  same 
time.' " 

I  shake  my  head,  feeling  mournfully  how  little  pleasure  gay- 
ety would  be  capable  of  giving  me  now. 

"I  do  not  want  to  leave  you,  papa;  and  pray,  where  is  the 
money  to  come  from  ?" 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  says  papa,  smiling;  "  and  I  wish  you 
to  go — more  particularly  "  (looking  grave  again)  "after  what  has 
happened  lately." 

'•  Let  us  think  about  it,"  I  petition.  But  in  the  end  it  is  de- 
tided  that  I  am  to  go.  I  take  it  very  calmly.  Somehow,  things 
that  would  have  filled  me  with  wonder  and  delight  six  months 
ago,  make  very  little  impression  upon  me  now. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

I  SUPPOSE  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  a  bred-and-born 
dweller  in  cities  faintly  to  conjecture  the  feelings  of  the  coun- 
try mouse  who,  for  the  first  time,  enters  a  big  city,  never  having 
seen  any  larger  agglomeration  of  houses  and  shops  than  her 
own  little  country  town.  I  was  as  utterly  bewildered  the  first 
few  days  of  my  stay  in  London,  as  if  I  had  been  suddenly  trans- 
planted to  another  world.  The  noise,  the  tumult,  the  splendor, 
the  misery,  the  countless  crowds  of  people,  the  endless  stream 
of  carriages,  vans,  carts,  cabs,  omnibuses,  filled  me  with  a  wonder 
that  words  are  utterly  inadequate  to  express.  For  the  first  week, 
1  believe,  my  mouth  never  assumed  any  shape  but  one  round  O 
of  astonishment.  Mr.  Warrington  was  delighted,  and  insisted 
upon  taking  me  everywhere,  and  telling  every  one  we  met, 
rather  to  my  confusion,  what  a  treat  it  was  to  go  about  with  a 
young  lady  who  had  never  been  in  London  befoi'e,  and  who  was 
not  blasee.  The  utter  change  certainly  did  my  spirits  good.  I 


DIANA    CAREW.  151 

had  no  time  to  think  in  the  day,  and  at  night  I  was  so  tired  out, 
that  the  moment  I  put  my  head  on  the  pillow  I  was  asleep. 

Before  I  left  home  we  heard  that  Sir  Hector  Montagu  was 
dead,  and  that  his  eldest  son  had  returned.  I  wrote  to  poor 
Lady  Montagu.  It  was  a  difficult  task,  as  it  needs  must  be,  when 
one  can  truthfully  say  nothing  good  of  the  dead;  but  I  did  my 
best. 

One  day,  when  we  were  driving  down  St.  James'  Street,  we 
met  Captain  Montagu  coming  up.  He  smiled,  bowed,  and  would 
have  passed  on,  but  Mrs,  Warrington  stopped  the  carriage.  It 
Avas  a  moment  of  utter  and  intense  happiness  to  me,  after  the 
first  confusion,  to  hear  his  voice  and  meet  his  eyes  once  more. 

Mrs.  Warrington  asked  after  his  mother,  and  he  looked  grave 
as  he  answered  that  she  was  really  ill,  and  took  his  poor  father's 
death  most  grievously  to  heart.  She  had  a  cousin  staying  with 
her,  and  Hector  was  at  home  now. 

Mrs,  Warrington  begged  him  to  call,  and  to  come  some  even- 
ing to  dine  in  a  friendly  way.  He  replied  that  he  was  not  going 
out  at  present,  but  would  come  some  night  when  they  were  quite 
alone.  Then  he  wished  us  good-bye;  and  as  we  rolled  on  our 
way  I  felt  radiant,  everything  seemed  to  take  a  rosy  hue.  The 
days  roll  by,  and  he  has  not  called.  Every  afternoon  I  look 
eagerly  over  the  array  of  cards.  Sometimes  a  black-bordered 
one  raises  hope  in  my  breast,  but  only  to  dash  it  to  the  ground  on 
nearer  inspection. 

"  Does  he  not  care  to  see  me?':  I  think,  grieved  in  my  very 
heart, 

I  meet  many  men,  some  of  whom  I  like  very  much;  most  of 
them  are  kind  and  pleasant  to  me,  but  not  one  in  my  eyes  can  be 
compared  with  him.  Colonel  Fane  is  in  town.  I  am  always  glad 
to  see  him.  he  seems,  by  the  side  of  my  new  acquaintances,  quite 
an  old  friend, 

Nearly  a  fortnight  has  elapsed,  when  one  morning  Mrs.  War- 
rington, amidst  her  numerous  engagements,  remembers  that 
Captain  Montagu  has  not  called. 

"  I  will  write  a  line  and  ask  him  to  dine  with  us  on  Sunday,"- 
she  exclaims.  "It  is  our  only  disengaged  evening  for  a  long 
time.  By  the  way,  Diana'  (drawing  a  sheet  of  paper  before 
her),  "  did  I  not  hear  that  you  had  been  staying  at  Alford  ?'' 

'  I  was  there  nearly  a  fortnight,'  I  answer. 

'  Was  Charlie  at  home  ?'' 

'  Only  for  one  day,'   I  say;  bending  over  my  work, 

'Hector,  of  course,  was  there?'' 

'Yes/' 

1  And  how  did  you  get  on  with  him  ?"  (looking  up  at  me). 
'  Oh.  very  well''    I  stammer. 
'  Do  you 'like  him  ?'' 
'  Yes."  I  answer,  indifferently, 

'  How  came  you  to  stay  there?"  Mrs,  Warrington  is  evidently 
in  a  very  questioning  mood. 
Lady  Montagu  asked  me,'' 
'And  Hector— Sir  Hector  now— asked  his  mother  to  invite 


152  DIANA    CAREW. 

you,  I  suppose,  Ah,  my  dear,  I  have  great  hopes  of  seeing  you 
Lady  Montagu  yet," 

I  feel  a  little  impatient.  "  That  you  never  will,'  I  say,  briskly. 
''  I  do  not  mean  to  marry  at  all.'' 

'  Oh,  indeed!"  she  rejoins,  looking  amused.  "Well,  time  will 
show.  But  I  thought  it  was  only  girls  who  could  not  marry  the 
object  of  their  affections  who  said  that;  and  you  have  not  had 
any  opportunity  yet  of  contracting  a  hopeless  attachment." 
And  she  laughs  good-humoredly. 

Captain  Montagu  writes  to  say  that  he  will  dine  on  Sunday, 
and  again  my  spirits  rise.  It  is  seven  o'clock  on  Thursday  even- 
ing when  I  hear  the  joyful  intelligence,  from  that  moment  I 
count  the  hours  until  I  shall  see  him.  As  the  time  draws  near, 
an  overpowering  anxiety  seizes  me  lest  he  should  be  prevented 
Sroui  coming;  if  he  is.  I  feel  the  disappointment  will  be  greater 
than  I  can  bear. 

I  am  not  called  on  to  bear  it.  Sunday  comes.  I  attend  mom- 
ing  church  with  Mr.  Warrington;  we  have  visitors  to  lunch, 
visitors  after  lunch;  we  take  a  stroll  in  the  park,  sit  under  the 
trees,  greet  many  acquaintances,  and  the  hours,  however  slowly 
they  may  drag  themselves  along,  do  pass  somehow  to  make 
way  for  the  hours  that  will  gallop  furiously  as  all  hours  do  that 
are  pleasant.  And  that  they  will  be  pleasant  it  never  enters  my 
mind  to  doubt. 

Eight  o'clock  comes  at  last,  and  with  it  the  guest.  It  seems 
happiness  enough  for  the  present  to  be  in  the  same  room  with 
him,  but  1  have  a  vague  expectation  that  at  some  time  in  the 
evening  he  will  find  means  to  press  my  hand  or  whisper  some 
kind  word  to  me  that  will  give  my  hungry  heart  food  to  live 
upon  until  I  see  him  again.  During  dinner  he  laughs  and  talks 
much  in  his  usual  strain;  perhaps  he  is  a  shade  more  subdued; 
now  and  then  he  addresses  some  pleasant  remark  to  me.  but 
there  is  nothing  in  his  voice  or  glance  that  makes  me  feel  as  if  I 
were  anything  more  to  him  than  an  ordinary  acquaintance. 
After  dinner  he  asks  me  to  sing,  and  we  go  together  to  the  piano 
at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warrington 
subside  in  a  pleasant  doze. 

I  feel  my  heart  beating  and  my  hands  trembling  as  I  turn  over 
the  music.  Has  he  nothing  to  say  to  me  in  memory  of  that 
moonlight  night  in  the  woods  with  the  silver  primroses  ?  Ap- 
parently nothing..  I  try  to  sing,  but  something  in  my  throat 
chokes  me— tears,  perhaps.  He  does  not  press  me  to  continue, 
but  talks  about  my  visit  to  London,  the  sights  I  have  seen,  the 
balls  I  have  been  to,  the  acquaintances  I  have  made. 

"  I  am  surprised."  he  says,  laughing,  "  that  you  have  not  been 
to  Madame  Tussaud's  and  the  Tower." 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  Tower,"  I  answer,  "but  I  do  not 
think  Madame  Tussaud's  would  amuse  me." 

"  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Warrington  to  come  and  lunch  with  me  at  the 
Tower,  and  we  will  show  you  all  the  wonders,  if  you  like.  Mrs. 
Warrington,  will  you  come  ?  And  afterward  you  must  have  tea 
in  my  rooms;  you  have  promised  me  dozens  of  times,  but  it  has 
never  come  off  yet." 


DIANA    CAttEW.  153 

Mrs.  Warrington  assents,  the  day  is  fixed,  and  presently  Cap- 
tain Mantagu  takes  his  leave.  I  rush  away  to  my  room;  my 
heart  feels  ready  to  break;  not  by  one  little  look  or  sign  has  he 
given  me  to  understand  that  lie  even  remembers  that  ' '  golden 
day  "  at  Alford.  I  try  to  pluck  up  my  pride,  to  bring  it  to  the 
rescue  of  my  foolish  love,  but  it  will  not  be  goaded  or  urged, 
however  sharp  the  lash  with  which  I  scourge  it.  "I  know — I 
always  knew — I  never  could  be  anything  to  him,  but  he  might 
have  shown  some  little  sign  that  he  remembered,"  I  keep  on 
saying  miserably  to  myself.  I  lose  all  hope.  I  do  not  even  look 
forward  to  the  luncheon-party  at  the  Tower.  "  Perhaps,"  I  say 
indignantly  to  myself,  "he  is  afraid  of  my  taking  in  serious 
earnest  what  passed  that  night  in  the  wood,  and  wishes  to  con- 
vince me  that  it  was  only  said  in  haste  and  repented  at  leisure. 
He  might  have  trusted  me,"  I  think,  bitterly. 

"  Remember,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington,  playfully,  "  I  am  not 
going  to  have  you  fall  in  love  with  Charlie  Montagu,  both  for 
your  sake  and  his." 

She  does  not  dream  how  much  too  late  her  caution  comes; 
that  is  one  mercy  to  be  thankful  for.  I  have  tried  so  hard  to 
feel  bitter  and  angry  with  him,  and  yet  when  he  comes  out  to 
receive  us,  looking  so  handsome  and  so  glad  to  see  us,  the  little 
mountain  of  wrath  I  have  labored  to  raise  crumbles  away  to 
dust. 

"  We  are  to  be  a  parti  carre,"  he  says  gayly,  to  Mrs.  Warring- 
ton.  "  We  cannot  tax  Miss  Carew  to  do  third  to  our  flirtation, 
can  we  ?  And  she  would  not  do  it  well.  It  wants  a  great  deal 
of  experience  to  make  a  good  third.  So  I  have  asked  Seldon; 
you  know  him,  I  think." 

"Slightly,"  Mrs.  Warrington  answers.  Then  she  looks  at  me 
and  whispers  something  to  Captain  Mantagu,  and  they  both 
laugh. 

"  Here  he  is,"  says  the  latter,  as  a  hansom  rattles  up.  "  How 
are  you,  Seldon?  You  know  Mrs.  Warrington.  Miss  Carew. 
Lord  Seldon." 

The  new-comer  has  a  very  bright,  cheery  face.  He  looks  ex- 
tremely young— younger,  I  should  think,  than  he  is,  or  his  edu- 
cation would  hardly  be  completed;  he  is  very  fair,  with  light- 
blue  eyes,  a  large  nose,  and  a  good-tempered  mouth,  shaded  by 
the  silkiest  down;  not  handsome,  certainly,  but  perhaps  if  he 
were  not  standing  next  to  Captain  Montagu  he  might  be  rather 
good-looking.  He  reminds  me  ever  such  a  little  bit  of  Curly. 
We  get  on  famously  together;  he  makes  me  laugh  as  every  now 
and  then  his  natural  boyishness  peeps  through  his  assump- 
tion of  manhood.  He  has  brought  the  sweetest  colly  dog  with 
him,  which  he  puts  through  a  variety  of  performances  for  my 
benefit.  We  look  out  of  window  together,  and  are  veiy  much 
amused  by  an  officer  in  a  blue  coat,  who  is  superintending 
with  evident  anxiety  the  trying  on  of  the  men's  new  red 
coats. 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  soldier! — by  George,  I  do!"  cries  my  young 
lord,  regretfully,  "  Isn't  it  an  awful  shame  they  would'n  let  me 
be  one?" 


154  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  Why  would  they  not?"  I  ask. 

"  My  governor's  so  frightfully  nervous;  he  thinks  I  should  get 
killed;  and  I  am,  unfortunately,  the  only  son.  He  can't  even 
bear  me  to  go  out  hunting.  It  s  only  a  wonder  I  haven't  broken 
my  neck  fifty  times,  for  his  worrying  me  makes  me  do  things  I 
shouldn't  otherwise,  just  because  I  won't  be  made  a  molly-coddle 
of.  Talking  of  hunting— I  suppose  you  hunt?" 

"  No,"  I  answer 

"  What  do  you  do?"  (curiously).  "  You  don't "  (looking  at  me 
doubtfully) — "  surely  you  don't  go  about  reading  to  old  women, 
and  teaching  the  choir?" 

"  Why,"  I  ask,  laughing,  "  am  I  bound  to  do  either  one  or  the 
other?" 

"Well,  you  know,"  he  answers  explanatorily,  "I  have  two 
sisters-  one  is  rather — well,  not  exactly  fast — lively,  and  she  is 
never  happy  out  of  the  saddle :  and  the  other — the  other  is  re- 
ligious,  and  is  always  taken  up  with  what  she  calls  parish-work. 
Parish-work!"  he  repeats,  with  an  accent  of  disgust;  "  doesn't  it 
sound  the  reverse  of  tempting  ?  It's  dreadful  for  me  being  be- 
tween two  fires — my  youngest  sister  is  always  making  fun  of  the 
eldest,  and  the  eldest  tries  to  sit  upon  the  youngest,  and  you 
know  it's  rather  a  bore  for  me,  because  I  like  'etn  both.  By  the 
way  "  (with  a  rapid  change  of  subject),  "have  you  ever  seen 
polo  ?  Of  course  you've  seen  polo  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  I  say;  "  we  are  going  one  day,  but  I  am  not  sure  I 
shall  like  it.  I  have  an  idea  that  it  must  be  cruel." 

"  Cruel! — not  a  bit  of  it — the  ponies  love  it  as  much  as  the  men: 
on  my  honor  they  do.  I've  got  the  loveliest  pony — bought  her 
of  one  of  the  9th.  I  give  you  my  word  when  I  go  into  the  stable 
and  say  '  Polo  day,  old  girl!'  she  pricks  up  her  ears  and  neighs 
with  delight." 

"  When  you've  quite  done  yarning,  Seldon,"  calls  Captain  Mon- 
tagu, "  bring  Miss  Carew  to  lunch." 

Everything  goes  off  pleasantly:  that  is  to  say,  every  one 
laughs,  and  talks,  and  eats.  After  lunch,  we  go  over  to  the 
Tower,  Captain  Montagu  remaining  in  strict  attendance  on  Mrs. 
Warrington.  It  is  quite  evident  he  has  resolved  to  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  me  than  to  an  ordinary  acquaintance;  and,  how- 
ever bitterly  I  may  feel  it,  I  am  forced  outwardly  to  acquiesce 
with  a  smile.  My  escort  is  exceedingly  lively:  he  makes  fun  of 
everything,  and  I  cannot  help  laughing  at  his  sallies.  It  is  not 
that  they  are  very  witty  and  have  much  point;  but  his  gay 
spirits  are  infectious,  and  I  am  ready  to  laugh  at  anything,  for  I 
feel  so  near  crying. 

"Remember,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  when  we  have  seen 
everything  and  emerge  again  into  the  open  air,  "the  tea-party 
is  still  before  you.  I  have  ordered  it  for  half-past  four.  I  will 
send  for  your  carriage,  and  Seldon  and  I  will  follow  in  a  han- 
som." 

But  Mrs.  Warrington  insists  on  their  accompanying  us  in  the 
carriage. 

How  often  have  I  thought  about  those  rooms  of  which  he  once 


DIANA    CAREW.  155 

told  me,  and  \rondered  what  they  were  like,  and  tried  to  picture 
him  at  home  in  them. 

"I  feel  quite  like  a  'frisky  matron,'"  laughs  good-natured 
Mrs.  Warrington,  as  he  lets  us  in  with  his  latch-key,  and  then 
precedes  us  up-stairs.  "  Diana,  my  dear,  it  is  you  who  have  led 
me  into  this." 

"  I  wish,"  whispers  young  Seldon  in  my  ear  from  behind, 
"  you  would  persuade  her  to  come  and  have  tea  or  lunch  in  my 
rooms.  They're  rattling  nice  ones;  though  I  don't  mean  to  say- 
fora  moment  they're  furnished  like  these." 

Captain  Montagu  throws  the  door  open,  and  we  pass  in. 

"This  is  charming!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Warrington.  "I  must 
really  congratulate  you.  I  have  heard  of  your  rooms  before, 
but  this  quite  surpasses  my  expectations." 

"  I  am  delighted  with  your  approval,"  he  answers,  gayly. 
"Have  I  yours  too,  Miss  Carew?"  And,  without  waiting  for 
my  answer,  he  calls  his  servant  and  gives  some  orders  in  an  un- 
dertone. I  look  round  me.  The  room  is  not  large,  but  it  would 
take  hours,  rather  than  minutes,  to  inventory  all  the  treasures 
in  it.  They  seem  scattered  about  in  careless  profusion,  but  the 
carelessness  is  evidently  the  result  of  most  artistic  study.  The 
furniture  is  of  ebony,  covered  in  richest  satin,  on  which  bloom 
roses  embroidered  in  the  land  of  roses;  the  luxurious  carpet  laid 
down  in  the  center  of  the  room  is  of  an  exquisite  shade  of  blue; 
the  chandelier,  sconces,  mirror-frames,  are  of  Venetian  glass, 
with  raised  flo%vers  of  rose-colo"  and  blue.  Every  couch,  every 
chair,  every  stool,  is  studious!;  luxurious;  the  walls  are  covered 
with  charming  pictures:  there  ire  bronzes,  statuettes,  groups  of 
china,  cabinets  of  rare  wood,  inlaid  with  Sevres,  and  yet  the 
thing  that  strikes  me  as  the  most  strange  is  that  the  room  looks 
as  if  it  were  lived  in;  there  is  even,  however  slight,  the  faintest 
soupcon  of  cigar  smoke.  Mrs.  Warrington  detects  it  at  once. 

i¥  You  do  not  mean  to  say,"  she  says,  in  a  horrified  tone,  "  that 
you  smoke  here ':'' 

"  Not  often,"  he  answers.  "  Only  when  I  am  quite  alone;  but 
my  smoking-room  adjoins,  and  it  will  creep  through,  you  know. 
Come  and  see  my  bedroom.  I  have  one  or  two  things  I  want  to 
show  you.  I  must  not  ask  Miss  Carew  "  (laughing).  "  Seldon, 
make  yourself  very  entertaining  till  we  come  back." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  come  if  I  asked  her  ?"  whispers  the 
latter,  indicating  the  retreating  figure  of  Mrs.  Warrington  with 
a  gesture  of  his  head. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  answer. 

"  Do  persuade  her,  some  day  after  the  park.  I  should  be  so 
awfully  proud  and  delighted  if  you  would  both  lunch  with  me, 
and  I'd  ask  Montagu,  too"  (as  if  catching  at  a  happy  thought); 
"  they  seem  to  be  so  fond  of  each  other.  I  didn't  know  "  (irrev- 
erently) "  that  he  had  such  a  taste  for  old  women." 

I  half  laugh,  half  feigh,  as  I  think  to  myself  what  is  the  object 
of  all  this  attention  toward  my  friend. 

"  Blankshire  is  your  county,  is  it  not?"  inquires  my  vis-a-vis, 
in  an  interested  tone,  and  I  respond  affirmatively. 


156  DIANA    CAREW. 

I  think  he  has  had  the  conversation  chiefly  to  himself  all  the 
afternoon,  but  he  seems  quite  equal  to  it. 

"  I  don't  know  many  people  there,  but  I  shall  try  and  get  some 
invitations  this  winter.  By  the  way,  I  dare  say  Montagu  would 
ask  me;  he  lives  not  very  far  from  you,  doesn't  he  ?" 

"  About  fifte.en  miles,"  I  say. 

"  Do  you  see  much  of  him  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all — at  least "  (correcting  myself)  "  very  little." 

"By  George!"  (opening  his  blue  eyes),  "I  know  if  I  lived 
within  fifteen  miles  you'd  see  a  good  deal  of  me." 

At  this  barefaced  compliment  from  my  youthful  companion  I 
am  so  inordinately  diverted  that  I  laugh  outright.  He  colors  up, 
and  begins  to  trace  rather  viciously  with  his  stick  a  rose-blossom 
that  looks  as  though  it  had  fallen  by  some  happy  accident  on  the 
couch  where  it  lies. 

"That  lovely  rose,"  I  cry,  in  terror  of  seeing  the  stick  go 
through  it;  "pray  don't  spoil  it!" 

"Why  did  you  laugh?"  he  asks,  desisting,  as  I  beg  him,  but 
still  looking  slightly  aggrieved. 

"I  hardly  know,"  I  say,  trying  to  compose  my  features  to 
gravity.  "  Perhaps  because  you  reminded  me  rather  of  Curly." 

"  Who  is  Curly — some  very  mirth-inspiring  fellow?" 

"Curly  is  my  brother.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  if  he  was  at 
Eton  with  you.  I  suppose  you  were  at  Eton  ?"  (interrogatively). 

"  When  did  he  go?" 

"Three  years  last  January." 

Lord  Seldon  glances  at  me  with  rather  a  disgusted  expression. 

"  Pray,  how  old  do  you  take  me  for  ?"  he  says,  lifting  a  dainty, 
shell-like  cup,  wreathed  with  raised  strawberries,  and  putting  it 
down  again  with  as  little  care  as  if  it  was  a  mug  with  "  For  a 
good  boy  "  inscribed  in  gold  letters  upon  it. 

"  I  am  a  very  bad  hand  at  guessing  ages,"  I  reply.  "  Twenty  ?" 
(thinking  I  will  give  him  the  benefit  of  a  year's  doubt). 

"  Twenty!"  (indignantly).  "  I  came  of  age  last  September.  I 
am  very  nearly  twenty-two." 

Here  we  are  joined  by  the  other  members  of  the  party. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  you  have  come,"  I  say,  trying  to  assume  a 
gay  manner.  "  Lord  Seldon  has  been  very  nearly  doing  a  mis- 
chief to  some  of  your  lovely  things." 

"  No  wonder,"  retorts  my  lord,  with  a  shade  of  pique.  "  Such 
very  young  children  are  not  to  be  trusted  with  pretty  things." 

"  Come  and  have  tea,"  interrupts  Captain  Montagu,  "  and  see 
what  nectar  a  wretched,  lonely  bachelor  can  brew." 

We  follow  him  as  he  lifts  a  heavy  portiere  and  opens  a  door 
behind  it. 

"  By  George,  Charlie!"  exclaims  his  friend,  in  a  tone  that  be- 
trays a  mixture  of  admiration  and  regret,  "what  a  fellow  you 
are  to  think  of  everything!" 

The  table  is  strewn  with  choice  flowers;  a  great  bowl  of  roses 
stands  in  the  center;  big  strawberries  peep  from  exquisitely- 
shaped  china  dishes;  grapes  and  flowers  hang  from  Dresden  bas- 
kets; every  kind  of  fanciful  and  pretty  sweetmeat  is  heaped  in 
shells  and  horns,  or  in  tiny  baskets  on  the  heads  of  Watteau-like 


DIANA    CAREW.  157 

shepherdesses.  There  is  not  a  single  ornament  on  the  table  that 
is  not  of  some  quaint  elegant  device;  the  chased  silver  service 
is  a  marvel  of  elegance,  and  the  jeweled  Sevres,  from  which  we 
drink  our  delicious  tea,  must  represent  a  small  fortune. 

"  You  wicked,  extravagant  boy!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Warrington, 
after  having  praised  everything  with  enthusiasm;  "  how  dare 
you  have  such  a  taste  for  splendor  and  luxury,  with  nothing 
to  keep  it  up  on  but  your  younger  son's  allowance  of  good 
looks  ?" 

"  That's  the  worst  of  these  fellows,"  joins  in  Lord  Seldon,  so 
plaintively  that  we  all  laugh:  "  they  are  so  deuced  good-looking 
and  have  such  taste.  They  think  of  things  that  never  enter  our 
brains." 

"  I  must  certainly  set  to  work  at  once  to  get  you  a  rich  wife," 
says  Mrs.  Warrington,  little  guessing  what  a  dagger  her  playful 
words  are  planting  in  my  breast. 

"  Do!"  Captain  Montagu  says,  smiling  lazily,  and  looking  as 
utterly  unconscious  as  if  he  had  never  taken  me  in  his  arms 
and  asked  me  to  be  his  wife.  "  Lots  of  my  friends  are  looking 
out.  I  am  quite  ready  to  be  knocked  down  to  the  highest  bid- 
der." 

The  others  laugh;  how  can  I  join  them,  when  I  am  suffering 
the  acutest  pain  that  has  ever  yet  fallen  to  my  lot? 

"  Your  face  is  your  fortune,  eh,  Charlie?"  laughs  Lord  Seldon; 
then,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  "  but  what  a  horrid  bore  to  marry 
a  woman  you  didn't  care  for!  What  a  horrid  bore  not  to  marry 
the  woman  you  love!" 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  returns  Captain  Montagu,  subsiding  from 
his  mirth  to  unmistakable  gravity,  "  if  you  marry  the  woman 
you  love,  yours  will  be  a  very  happy  fate,  and  a  very  exceptional 
one." 

Mrs.  "Warrington  rises  to  go.  As  the  young  men  bid  us  good- 
bye at  the  carriage-door,  she  invites  Lord  Seldon  to  call  upon 
her. 

"  Thanks;  I  shall  be  most  delighted."  he  answers,  beaming 
with  smiles,  and  shaking  us  as  cordially  by  the  hand  as  if  we 
were  his  oldest  friends. 

"  That  is  on  your  account,  Diana,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington,  with 
a  smile,  as  we  drive  off.  "  He  is  the  Duke  of  Landermere's  only 
son.  The  duke  is  a  great  invalid,  and  fabulously  rich." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

MY  heart  is  full  of  grief  at  the  shattering  of  my  idol;  for  shat- 
tered he  is,  crumbled  into  dust,  this  fair  fetich,  golden  with  my 
faith,  jeweled  with  my  love.  The  gold  has  turned  to  dross,  the 
jewels  are  bits  of  gaud~y  painted  glass  that  have  no  worth.  With 
all  my  wish  to  shield  him,  with  the  humblest  consciousness  of 
my  own  unworthiness,  my  sense  of  justice  will  creep  in  and 
whisper  to  me  with  relentless  iteration  that  he  has  not  done  by 
me  the  thing  that  is  right.  Did  I  expect  anything  from  him  ? 
Did  I  in  my  wildest  dreams  hope  to  be  any  thing  to  him  ?  Would 


158  DIANA    CAREW. 

I  have  permitted  him  to  sacrifice  himself  to  me,  even  if  he  had 
really  willed  it  ?  No.  I  had  only  asked  of  him  that  one  small 
boon— to  be  allowed  to  think  that  he  cared  a  little  for  me.  And 
it  would  have  been  so  easy.  One  meaning  pressure  of  my  hand, 
one  look  of  his  eyes  into  mine,  I  should  have  been  content,  and 
we  would  have  held  to  the  bargain  which  he  made  with  me 
that  May  night  with  the  nightingales  and  the  pale  primroses  for 
witnesses.  "  And  now,"  I  think,  bitterly,  "  I  am  numbered 
among  those  other  women  in  whose  society  he  could  not  be  ten 
minutes  without  making  love  to  them."  Have  any  of  them,  I 
wonder,  with  pained  curiosity,  suffered  as  I  am  doing?  Who 
feels  any  pity  for  disappointment  in  love?  Pity!  nay,  rather  it 
is  a  cause  for  mirth:  it  is  like  a  cold  in  the  head — however 
uncomfortable  for  the  time,  it  is  not  dangerous,  the  patient  will 
get  over  it. 

There  is  one  mighty  consolation  I  can  hug  to  my  breast,  my 
secret  is  in  my  own  keeping:  if  my  life  has  grown  blank,  if  my 
cherished  illusions  are  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  if  my  heart 
within  me  is  consumed  by  pain,  it  is  unguessed  at  by  those 
around  me.  I  talk,  laugh,  dance,  do  all  that  is  expected  of  me, 
and  doubtless  am  considered  very  fortunate  and  enviable.  And 
so  I  am,  I  tell  myself  over  and  over  again— very  fortunate,  very 
enviable:  not  to  think  myself  so  would  be  rank  ingratitude  to 
the  friends  who  are  so  kind  to  me.  How  altogether  delightful 
the  life  I  am  leading  would  be — if  there  were  no  ifs! 

Captain  Montagu  does  not  come  again  to  the  house  during  our 
stay  in  town,  although  Mrs.  Warrington  invites  him  more  than 
once;  but  his  friend  is  a  frequent  guest.  He  has  become  a  great 
favorite  with  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warrington,  he  is  so  bright  and 
cheery,  so  full  of  all  a  boy's  pranks  and  spirits,  and  he  makes 
himself  most  perfectly  at  home.  He  persuades  Mrs.  Warrington 
into  the  lunch  at  his  rooms;  he  insists  upon  a  Greenwich  dinner 
for  the  especial  purpose  of  initiating  me  into  that  hitherto  un- 
known delight;  he  cajoles  us  into  driving  down  on  hot  after- 
noons to  witness  his  pi'owess  at  polo;  he  wins  over  Mrs.  War- 
rington to  let  him  drive  me  down  to  Richmond  on  his  drag,  with 
Mr.  Warrington  in  attendance  as  chaperon,  after  considerable 
demur,  I  must  say,  on  her  part;  he  goes  down  to  Eton  with  us 
to  see  Curly,  and  the  two  become  fast  friends  at  once;  we  meet 
him  constantly  at  balls,  and  he  is  oftener  my  partner  than  any 
one  else  (for  he  dances  perfectly),  though,  counseled  by  my 
chaperon,  I  refuse  his  appeals  when  they  become  too  frequent  or 
too  importunate.  He  does  me  good.  I  feel  ten  times  more 
cheerful  in  his  company;  he  reminds  me  of  Curly  grown  older 
and  less  handsome.  One  night  at  a  ball,  before  I  have  the  least 
idea  of  what  he  is  going  to  do,  he  takes  me  up  to  a  very  stately 
lady  ablaze  with  diamonds. 

"  Miss  Carew,"  he  says,  "  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my 
mother.  Mother,  you  have  often  heard  me  speak  of  Miss 
Carew." 

In  the  embarrassment  caused  by  the  suddenness  and  unex- 
pectedness of  his  movement,  I  blush  and  look  conscious — the 
very  last  thing  I  would  have  elected  to  do,  could  J  ha.ve  con- 


DIANA    CAREW.  159 

trolled  myself.  The  duchess  receives  me  with  perfect  polite- 
ness, but  in  a  manner  that  convinces  me  the  introduction  is  as 
unwelcome  to  her  as  to  me.  Her  son  remarks  it  too,  I  think, 
for  he  colors  uneasily,  and  very  soon  leads  me  away — to  my  in- 
finite relief.  As  we  are  passing  into  another  room,  a  handsome 
woman  taps  him  on  the  arm  with  her  fan. 

"Lord  Seldon,  how  is  it  we  never  see  you  now?  You  are 
quite  a  stranger." 

He  makes  what  I  consider  rather  a  brusque  response,  and  hur- 
ries on. 

"That,"  he  whispers,  with  an  accent  of  disgust,  when  we 
are  out  of  earshot — "  that  is  the  woman  my  mother  wants  me  to 
marry." 

"Why,  she  must  be  years  older  than  you!''  I  remark,  be- 
traying my  surprise  very  plainly  in  my  voice;  and  then  I  fall  to 
laughing. 

"  What  a  ridiculous  idea!"  I  continue,  uttering  my  thoughts 
aloud,  for  we  are  very  free  of  speech  to  each  other. 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  its  being  ridiculous,"  he  says, 
rather  huffily;  "  if  you  said  unsuitable,  now " 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  I  hasten  to  explain.  "  The  ridiculous- 
ness was  the  idea  of  a  boy  like  you  thinking  of  marrying  at 
all."  We  have  sunk  upon  a  couch,  and  I  am  still  laughing. 
"  I  shall  expect  to  hear  next  that  Curly  is  looking  out  for  a 
wife," 

Lord  Seldon,  for  once,  does  not  join  in  my  mirth;  the  color 
mounts  to  his  face,  and  he  looks  at  me  with  angry  curiosity, 

"  Is  your  amusement  genuine?"  he  asks;  "  or  is  it  put  on  fer 
the  occasion  ?*' 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  it  were  put  on  ?"  I  say,  not  quite  able,  in  spite 
of  his  evident  displeasure,  to  resume  my  gravity. 

"If  I'm  not  a  man  now,"  he  says,  with  an  air  of  importance 
which  nearly  sets  me  off  again,  "I'm  afraid  I  haven't  much 
chance  of  ever  becoming  one,  lam  of  age,  I  can  marry  to-mor- 
row if  I  choose,  and,  what's  more,  I  can  marry  whom  I  choose," 
he  adds,  looking  at  me  with  exultation. 

"  Very  well,"  I  say,  smiling,     "  Ask  me  to  the  wedding." 

"  If  you  are  not  there,"  he  says,  fixing  his  eyes  on  me  with 
an  expression  I  do  not  quite  understand,  "I  don't  know  who 
will  be." 

At  this  moment  my  partner  for  the  waltz  claims  me,  and  I  go 
off,  leaving  my  lord  sitting,  with  rather  a  sulky  expression,  on 
the  couch. 

"  Seldon  will  be  getting  into  disgrace,"  says  the  new-comer,  as 
he  leads  me  away.  "  I  see  Mrs.  Hastings  looking  daggers  at 
him,  and  Lady  Egidia  anything  but  pleased." 

"  Why?"  I  ask, 

"  Oh,  j'ou  know  he  is  generally  in  close  attendance  upon  Mrs. 
Hastings,  and  it  is  popularly  supposed  that  he  is  to  marry  Lady 
Egidia." 

"Oh!"  I  answer,  being  somewhat  puzzled  by  these  rival 
claims. 

"  Lady  Egidia  and  Mrs,  Hastings  don't  mind  each  other."  he 


160  DIANA     CAREW. 

proceeds,  explanatorily,  "  but  they  won't  stand  anybody  else  in 
the  field,  if  they  can  help  it." 

"Oh!"  I  say,  again,  not  feeling  much  enlightened,  but  not 
wishing  to  betray  my  ignorance  by  asking  further  information. 

The  days  pass  quickly  by.  Now  there  is  only  a  week  left,  for 
we  are  to  leave  town  on  the  Monday  following  the  Eton  and 
Harrow  match. 

It  is  a  lovely  day.  and  we  are  going  to  a  garden-party.  It  is  to 
be  a  very  grand  affair;  royalty  is  expected,  and  I  look  forward 
to  it  with  some  pleasure,  Lord  Seldon,  who  is  lunching  with 
us,  asks  Mrs.  Warrington  to  drive  him  down,  but,  for  some 
reason  best  known  to  herself,  she  refuses  his  most  urgent  en- 
treaties. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  says,  laughing,  "  I  won't  be  got  rid  of  in 
that  way.  I'll  get  there  first,  and  hang  about  the  gate  until  you 
come." 

He  is  as  good  as  his  word,  The  very  first  person  we  see  upon 
entering  is  his  noble  self. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  so?"  he  whispers,  triumphantly,  a  few 
minutes  later,  as  he  joins  me,  and  we  all  go  together  to  salute 
our  hosts. 

To  all  intents  and  purposes  he  might  have  gone  down  in  the 
carriage  with  us.  The  Duchess  of  Landermere  and  Lady  Egidia 
are  standing  among  the  group  around  the  hostess;  both  dart 
angry  glances  in  Lord  Seldon  s  direction,  which  that  self-willed 
young  gentleman  chooses  to  ignore  utterly. 

"Ah,  mother,  got  here  first,  I  see!  How  do,  Lady  Egidia?" 
And  then  the  abominable  boy  turns  his  back  upon  them  and 
laughs,  and  whispers  to  me  in  the  most  pointed  manner.  I  feel 
rather  angry  with  him, 

"  Why  do  you  not  join  the  duchess?"  I  say,  in  a  low  voice. 
"She  is  evidently  displeased,  and  Lady  Egidia  is  looking  dag- 
gers." 

"  Let  them;  who  cares?"  he  answers,  defiantly,  "  I  am  going 
to  enjoy  myself.  Come  along;  I'll  show  you  all  over  the 
grounds.  They're  awfully  pretty — well  worth  seeing.  Mrs. 
Warrington,  I  am  going  to  do  cicerone,  to  Miss  Carew.  You  know 
what  a  good  hand  I  am  at  that  sort  of  thing  " 

"Do  not  be  away  long,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington,  smiling 
graciously,  for  by  this  time  we  had  moved  off  from  the  duchess' 
group,  and  are  mixed  up  with  the  general  throng  of  guests, 

"I'm  in  tremendous  spirits  to-day,"  says  the  young  fellow, 
gayly.  "  Let's  get  out  of  the  way  of  all  these  people,  and  then 
we  can  enjoy  ourselves.  I've  got  a  new  hat  on,  and  the  brim 
will  be  off  presently  if  I  have  to  take  it  off  much  more  "(per- 
forming as  he  speaks  repeated  salutations  right  and  left,  in 
answer  to  the  gracious  bows  that  are  being  bestowed  upon  him 
from  many  members  of  my  sex).  '  I  only  wish  to  goodness  they 
would  invent  some  new  mode  of  greeting;  for  instance — happy 
thought! — wave  your  hand  to  a  man  and  kiss  it  to  a  woman.  By 
Jove!  I'll  get  some  one  to  start  the  idea." 

We  are  getting  out  of  the  crowd  now— out  of  the  sunshine, 
which  is  rather  oppressive,  into  a  shady  avenue  of  fine  old  trees. 


DIANA    CAEEW.  161 

We  have  it  all  to  ourselves.  Here  and  there  comfortable  garden- 
chairs  are  placed  in  niches  at  long  intervals.  My  companion 
flings  himself  into  one,  takes  off  his  hat,  stretches  his  arms,  and 
gives  vent  to  a  sigh  of  intense  relief. 

"  This  is  bliss!"  he  ejaculates.  "  Now,"  turning  to  me,  with 
•dancing  eyes  and  the  most  radiant  expression  of  face,  "guess 
why  I  have  brought  you  here!"  And,  before  I  can  utter  a  word, 
he  seizes  both  my  haads,  and  cries:  "  I  love  you,  and  I  have 
brought  you  here,  however  ridiculous  it  may  be  "  (a  look  of  tri- 
ump  belying  his  words),  "  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

To  say  I  am  astonished  would  be  to  give  very  poor  expression 
to  the  bewilderment  that  overpowers  my  senses.  Honestly  and 
truthfully,  I  had  no  more  idea  of  such  a  climax  to  our  merry 

friendship  than — than Oh,  why  does  not  some  one  invent  a 

new  set  of  similes? 

"Well?"  he  says,  joyously,  looking  eagerly  in  my  face,  as 
though  there  was  but  one  answer  possible  to  his  appeal,  and 
then  again,  vet  more  eagerly,  and  with  a  dash  of  impatience: 
"Well?" 

I  feel  as  perplexed  as  I  might  do  if  my  pug-dog  were  to  be- 
come suddenly  unmanageable.  Then  I  say,  still  leaving  my 
hands  in  his,  and  looking  blankly  at  him: 

"  My  dear  boy,  have  you  taken  leave  of  your  senses?" 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  cries,  drawing  back  for  a  moment 
in  angry  surprise.  "Why  do  you  look  so  astonished?  You 
knew — you  must  have  known  for  days  past — what  was  coming; 
at  all  events,  every  one  else  did." 

We  are  still  staring  at  each  other,  both  acted  upon  by  the 
same  emotion  of  surprise;  but  his  is  marked  by  angry  incredu- 
lity, and  mine  is  nothing  but  the  pure,  simple,  unadulterated 
feeling. 

"  Di,"  he  says,  appealingly,  evidently  making  an  effort  over 
himself,  "  of  course  I  know  it's  the  correct  thing,  at  least  I've  al- 
ways heard  so,  for  girls  to  pretend  to  be  surprised  and  get  up  a 
little  bit  of  acting,  that  they  mayn't  seem  to  jump  at  a  fellow; 
but  I  should  have  thought  you  were  above  that  sort  of  thing; 
and,  besides,  you  know  me  so  well "  (reproachfully),  "  and  that 
I  mean  all  I  say,  so  there  isn't  any  need  for  that  sort  of  humbug 
between  us." 

If  I  were  not  so  sorry,  I  should  feel  inclined  to  smile  at  the 
boy's  unconscious  egotism,  but  I  am  sorry,  and  vexed  with 
myself  too.  Is  it  possible  there  can  have  been  anything  in  his 
manner  I  ought  to  have  seen  or  guessed  at  if  I  had  not  been  so 
blindly  taken  up  with  my  own  unhappy,  miserable  love  ? 

"  Come,"  I  say,  coaxingly,  laying  my  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
humoring  him,  as  one  might  a  child  one  was  persuading  to 
something  unpleasant;  "  let  us  talk  calmly  and  rationally." 

"  Calmly  and  rationally!"  he  says,  the  angry  tears  starting  to 
his  blue  eyes;  "calmly  and  rationally!"  (with  indignant  itera- 
tion), "  when  I've  been  thinking  and  dreaming  of  nothing  but 
you  for  days  and  nights,  and  last  night  I  never  closed  my  eyes 
for  thinking  IIQW  happy  I  was  going  to  be  to-day.  But "  (with  a 
sudden  change  'of  manner,  bringing  his  fair  young  face  close  to 


162  DIANA    CAREW. 

mine,  and  speaking  in  a  pleading  voice)  "  you  are  not  in  earnest, 
really,  darling  ?  You  do  care  a  little  bit  about  me.  If  it's  onlj 
because  you  think  I'm  too  young,  I  shall  soon  mend  of  that. 
After  all,  I  am  two  years  older  than  you." 

All  the  time  that  he  is  pouring  out  his  impetuous  words,  I  am 
looking  regretfully  at  his  bright,  young,  impassioned  face,  and 
wondering  what  I  can  say  to  make  him  see  reason. 

"  Lord  Seldon,"  I  begin. 

"Don't  call  me  that!"  he  exclaims,  impatiently;  "call  me 
Hubert,  or,  better  still,  Bertie." 

"  Very  well,  Bertie,"  I  say.  At  which  he  seizes  my  hand  and 
kisses  it.  "  No,"  I  cry,  drawing  it  away,  "  you  must  not  do  that. 
Sit  further  away,  or  I  cannot  talk  to  you." 

He  starts  up  in  a  rage. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  I  disgust  you,"  he  begins  furiously,  "  there's 
an  end  of  everything." 

I  feel  petrified  by  the  airs  of  manhood  he  is  giving  himself.  I 
really  do  not  know  how  to  treat  him.  Suddenly  it  occurs  to  me 
to  meet  him  on  his  own  ground.  Rising,  I  say: 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  take  me  back  to  Mrs. 
Warrington." 

"  Certainly,"  he  answers,  with  bitter  politeness. 

We  walk  silently  side  by  side  a  few  yards,  then  he  turns  off  to 
the  left  along  a  smaller  avenue,  and,  turning  once  again,  we 
find  ourselves  in  an  open  space,  laid  with  velvety  turf,  in  the 
center  of  which  a  fountain  plays  into  a  marble  basin. 

"  This  is  not  the  way  back,"  I  say. 

"  No,"  he  answers.     "  Sit  down  here  with  me  a  moment." 

And,  as  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  wide  basin,  he  throws  himself 
down  on  the  sward. 

"  Now,"  he  says,  looking  ttp  at  me,  "  it  is  your  turn.  You 
taven't  really  said  anything;  it  has  only  been  your  face  that  has 
•poken;  but,  anyhow,  that  was  plain  enough." 

And  he  tilts  the  brim  of  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  that  he  may 
iook  up  into  my  face. 

"  Don't  you  know,"  I  cry,  regretfully,  "  how  much  I  like  you, 
%nd  that  I  would  not  willingly  give  "you  pain"  (hesitatingly), 
"  any  more  than  I  would  Curly  V" 

"  Curly  ?"  (impatiently) — "a  boy  of  sixteen!  Anyone  would 
•imagine  you  were  an  old  woman.  Why  will  you  persist  in  think- 
ing of  me  only  as  a  boy  T 

"  It's  not  that,"  I  say,  hastily.  "  I  have  thought  of  you  in 
that  way;  but,  even  if  I  were  ten  years  older,  I  could  not  look 
upon  you  as  anything  but  a  friend.  Let  me  be  your  friend." 

As  I  utter  the  word,  my  thoughts  fly  back  to  that  night  at  Al- 
ford,  when  Hector  Montagu  and  I  sat  together  under  the  bent 
bows  of  the  old  tree,  beside  the  glittering  wuter.  I  can  see  the 
angry  scorn  flashing  from  his  eyes  as  I  proffer  him  all  I  have  to 
give — my  friendship. 

Such  scorn,  though  differing  in  intensity  as  the  man's  dark 
face  differs  from  the  boy's  fair  young  one,  comes  into  Lord  Sel- 
don's  eyes. 

"Friend!"  he  says.     "Thanks;  I  have  plenty  of  friends.     I 


DIANA    CAREW.  163 

don't  want  your  friendship;  I  ask  for  your  love.  And  if  you 
won't  give  me  that ,  I  have  at  all  events  a  right  to  know  "  (pas- 
sionately) "why,  after  seeming  to  care  for  me,  you  throw  me 
over." 

"  Won't  you  believe  me,"  I  cry,  eagerly,  "  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  no  more  dreamed  of  your  being — well'  in  love  with  me,  than  " 
(in  my  usual  strait  for  a  simile)—"  than  the  Prince  of  Wales T 

"  How  was  it,  then,  that  every  one  else  saw  it  ?''  (incredu- 
lously). "  Mrs.  Warrington  saw  it,  Lady  Egidia  saw  it  plain 
enough,  my  mother  saw  it.  I  have  heard  of  nothing  else  this 
week  past." 

I  see  a  loophole  of  escape  in  his  last  words. 

"  It  is  very  evident,"  I  say,  "  if  the  duchess  saw  it,  that  she 
did  not  approve  of  it.  I  could  not  help  remarking  even  this 
afternoon  how  vexed  she  looked  to  see  you  with  me,  and  you  can 
hardly  say  she  looked  pleased  when  you  introduced  me  to  her 
that  night.  However  much  I  might  like  a  man,"  I  add,  with 
dignity,  "it  is  very  unlikely  1  should  accept  him  if  his  family 
disapproved  of  me." 

"  Is  that  all  ?''  he  cries,  eagerly,  jumping  up  and  coming  to  sit 
beside  me  on  the  edge  of  the  fountain.  "  My  darling,  don't  let 
a  thought  of  that  enter  your  brain.  My  mother  is  a  little  bit 
crusty  just  now,  because  she  has  set  her  heart  on  my  marrying 
Lady  Egidia;  but  she  worships  me;  if  she  knew  that  I  couldn't 
live  without  you — and  I  couldn't:  I  should  blow  my  brains  out 
— she  would  come  to  you  on  her  knees  and  ask  you  to  marry 
me.  Besides,  if  it  comes  to  that,  your  family's  an  older  one  than 
ours." 

"  That  may  be,"  I  answer,  promptly,  "  but  our  position  now  is 
not  equal  to  yours,  and,  if  you  married  nie,  people  would  think 
you  had  thrown  youi-self  away." 

"Let  them  think,  and  be  hanged  to  them.  Who  cares?"  he 
cries,  impetuously. 

I  give  vent  to  a  sigh.  After  all,  I  am  not  a  whit  nearer  a 
satisfactory  ending  than  when  I  began. 

"What  am  I  to  say  to  you?"  I  cry,  in  despair.  "  I  cannot 
marry  you,  because  I  do  not  love  you." 

He  throws  himself  on  his  knees  before  me,  regardless  of  the 
havoc  that  the  green  moss  may  make  with  his  light  trousers, 
and,  whether  I  will  or  no,  puts  both  his  arms  round  me  and  looks 
up  into  my  face. 

"But,  darling,"  he  cries,  passionately,  "you  would  in  time. 
If  you  like  me  as  you  say  you  do  now,  surely  I'm  not  such  a 
beast  that  you  couldn't  get  to  love  me.  Don't  break  my  heart; 
for  God's  sake,  do  try  and  care  for  me;  there's  nothing  in  this 
world  I  won't  do  if  you  will  only  give  me  some  hope!" 

He  buries  his  face  in  my  lap,  and  a  horrible  suspicion  comes 
across  me  that  he  is  crying.  The  fountain  sends  up  its  sparkling 
stream  into  the  sunshine,  faintly  from  afar  the  notes  of  the 
"Blue  Danube"  are  wafted  toward  us,  but  nor  sunshine  nor 
music  can  lighten  the  load  that  weighs  upon  my  heart.  I  look 
down  at  the  fair-haired  head  and  the  broad  young  shoulders, 
and  a  sorrowful  thought  comes  across  me  that  some  day  Curly 


164  DIANA     CAEEW. 

may  be  pleading  to  some  woman  in  vain.  What  can  I  say  to 
him  ?  A  sudden  inspiration  comes  to  me,  and  I  act  upon  it  as 
suddenly,  without  a  moment's  reflection  as  to  whether  I  may 
not  regret  it  later. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

IT  is  a  curious  position,  that  in  which  I  find  myself  this  July 
afternoon,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  fountain,  with  a  future  duke 
in  tears  at  my  feet,  not  two  hundred  yards  away  from  a  gay  and 
select  crowd,  any  member  or  members  of  whom  may  at  any 
moment  come  suddenly  upon  us  without  warning.  And  I,  who 
have  all  along  hugged  my  bitter  secret  to  my  heart  of 
hearts,  am  about  to  confide  it  to  this  boy,  who  only  one  short 
half  hour  ago  would  have  seemed  to  me  the  most  impossible  re- 
cipient for  such  a  confidence. 

The  little  white  cloudlets  are  sailing  aloft  in  the  blue  heaven, 
a  tiny  breeze  stirs  the  topmost  leaves  of  the  big  trees,  the  fount- 
ain sparkles  in  the  sun  and  comes  plashing  musically  down  again 
into  the  broad  basin,  and  I,  plucking  up  heart,  force  out  the 
words  that  are  to  console  my  boy  lover  and  make  him  see  reason. 

"  I  want  you  to  believe,"  I  say,  laying  my  hand  on  his  arm, 
while  the  tears  spring  into  my  eyes,  ' '  that  I  would  not  for  the 
•world  give  you  pain  willingly.  I  know  myself  " — and  my  voice 
falters—"  how  bitter  it  is  to  love  in  vain."  ' 

"What!"  he  cries,  looking  up  into  my  face;  "do  you  mean 
that  you  love  some  one  else  ?" 

It  IB  hard,  bitterly  hard,  to  say  it,  but  his  eager  eyes  compel 
the  words  out  of  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer. 

"  Well,"  he  cries,  starting  up  wrathfully,  "  you  have  kept  it 
dark  very  carefully,  I  must  say.  Pray  " — trying  to  be  sarcastic, 
but  failing  utterly—"  may  I  be  privileged  to  know  who  is  my 
rival  ?" 

"You  need  not  know,"  I  answer,  slowly,  "since  there  is  no 
more  chance  of  my  marrying  him  than  of  my  marrying  you." 

"  Is  he  married,  then  ?" 

"Married!"  I  repeat,  shocked;  "of  course  not!  How  could 
one  care  for  a  married  man  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  of  such  things,"  he  remarks,  bitterly.  "  Well, 
then,  if  he  is  not  married,  what  obstacle  can  there  be  to  his 
marrying  you  ?" 

I  avert  my  face,  to  hide,  if  may  be,  the  sudden,  traitorous  color 
that  dyes  my  cheeks. 

"  He  does  not  want  to." 

There  is  a  pause,  during  which  I  watch  the  movements  of  a 
stray  gold-fish  in  the  water,  whilst  my  face  recovers  its  normal 
tint. 

"  He  does  not  want  to  /"  echoes  Lord  Seldon,  at  last.  "  Then, 
in  Heaven's  name  " — coming  round  and  seating  himself  beside 
me—"  are  you  going  to  give  up  everything  in  life  for  a  man  who 
does  not  care  for  you  ?  Why,  you  can't  go  on  caring  about  him 


DIANA    CAEEW.  165 

forever;  nobody  does;  people  are  bound  to  get  over  that  sort  of 
thing  in  time " — unconsciously  arguing  against  his  own  cause. 
"  Well  '* — eagerly — "  if  you  have  no  heart,  have  you  no  ambition  ? 
Don't  you  care  to  be  a  duchess  ?  I  know,"  he  says,  his  bright 
face  flushing,  "it  sounds  very  snobbish  to  remind  you  of  that, 
but  siirely  it  must  go  for  something." 

"  What!"  I  say,  looking  at  him,  "  would  you  be  content  that 
I  should  take  you  without  loving  you,  just  because  some  day  you 
may  be  a  duke  ?" 

"  Lots  of  women  would,"  he  answers,  glumly.  "  No,  of  course 
I  should  not  be  content;  but,  oh,  darling "  (looking  up  at  me 
with  honest  love  in  his  blue  eyes),  "  I  would  rather  you  took  me 
for  that  than  not  at  all.  Give  me  a  month,  two  months,  let  me 
try  to  make  you  love  me,  and  then,  if  I  fail,  I  swear  to  you  upon 
my  honor,  I  will  take  all  the  blame  to  myself  if  you  find  you 
can't  like  me." 

"  It  is  no  use,"  I  cry,  feeling  the  ground  slipping  away  from 
under  me.  "  Do  not  pain  me  by  saying  any  more:  be  generous, 
and  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  it  is  uttterly,  utterly  impos- 
sible." 

He  looks  at  me  with  eyes  in  which  anger  and  incredulity  are 
equally  blended. 

•'  Do  you  mean  to  say  positively,"  he  asks,  forcing  the  words 
out  slowly,  "  that  you  refuse  me? — refuse  me  for  good  and  all?" 

"  Do  not  put  it  in  that  way."  I  say,  rising  to  go.  "  Forget 
that  you  ever  asked  me,  and  believe  that  I  would  not  for  the 
world  have  given  you  pain  willingly.  Come"  (laying  my  hand 
on  higarm),  "let  us  go  back  to  Mrs.  Warrington." 

For  the  first  time  he  thinks  of  his  appearance.  He  looks 
down  at  the  faint  green  stains  on  his  clothes,  and  passes  his  hand 
over  his  hair. 

"  I  can't  go  back  among  those  people,"  he  says,  with  hurt  boy- 
ish vanity:  "  it  is  not  pleasant  to  look  as  well  as  to  feel  that  you've 
made  a  fool  of  yourself." 

I  look  rather  ruefully  at  my  own  pale  gown  of  bleu,  Watteau 
del,  as  the  confectioner  thereof  fancifully  called  it,  and  see  on  it 
the  poor  boy's  tear-stains. 

••'  How  am  I  to  get  back?"  I  say,  doubtfully,  but  not  wishing 
to  put  him  to  any  pain  that  I  can  spare  him,  "  I  can  hardly  go 
alone." 

"  Come,  then,"  he  utters,  brusquely,  turning  to  go. 

I  feel  sorry  for  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  He  has 
never  been  used  to  contradiction,  and  takes  it  very  badly.  I 
want  to  make  friends  with  him.  I  long  to  restore  to  him  his 
shattered  self-conceit,  but  am  afraid  of  adding  fuel  to  the  fire  by 
anything  I  may  say;  so  we  hurry  along  in  profound  silence. 
As  we  emerge  from  the  avenue  I  encounter  an  old  friend. 

"  There  is  Colonel  Fane!"  I  exclaim:  "  he  will  take  me  to  Mrs. 
Warrington;"  and  as  he  comes  toward  me  Lord  Seldon  abruptly 
raises  his  hat  and  leaves  me. 

' '  How  wild  that  boy  looks!"  utters  Fane,  looking  fixedly  at  me, 
"  What  have  you  been  doing  to  him  V" 


166  DIANA    CAREIV. 

"  I?— nothing!"  I  answer,  trying  vainly  to  look  unconscious 
"  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Warririgton?  She  will  think  I  am  lost." 

"  My  dear  Diana,"  says  that  lady,  with  slight  reproach  in  her 
voice,  as  I  join  her,  "  where  have  you  been  all  this  immense 
time  ?" 

A  little  later  we  are  on  our  way  to  the  gate.  Mrs.  Warrington 
stops  to  speak  to  some  friends,  and  I  stand  listlessly  aside  until 
she  shall  have  finished.  There  are  two  elegantly-dressed  women 
standing  with  their  backs  to  me,  and,  to  my  surprise,  I  hear  my 
name  mentioned. 

' '  What  can  she  have  done  to  Lord  Seldon  ?"  says  one. 

"  I  saw  him  go  off  half  an  hour  ago  looking  as  wild  as  a  March 
hare,  and  not  long  before  that  they  went  up  the  avenue  together, 
She  can't  have  refused  him!" 

"  My  dear,"  retorts  the  other,  contemptuously,  "  did  the  beggai 
maid  refuse  King  Cophetua  ?" 

Happily  Mrs.  Warrington  is  moving  on.  As  we  drive  home- 
ward I  feel  very  little  inclination  to  talk,  nor,  apparently,  does 
my  companion.  But  suddenly,  when  I  am  enveloped  in  a  traia 
of  thought,  she  turns  to  me,  and  says: 

"  Diana, what  became  of  Lord  Seldon?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  stammer.     "  I  think  he  went  away " 

"Was  he  ill?" 

"  I  do  not  think  so.    He  did  not  say  so." 

There  is  a  moment's  pause.  Then  she  says,  looking  intently 
at  me: 

"  It  is  not  possible  that  he  has  proposed  to  you  and  that  you 
have  refused  him!  It  is  not  possible!"  she  reiterates,  as  I  turn 
my  head  away  to  conceal  my  embarrassment.  Still  I  am  silent. 
I  will  not  tell  the  truth,  but  I  cannot  deny  it. 

"  Diana!"  whispered  my  usually  placid  friend,  with  vindictive 
energy,  "  I  should  like  to  shake  you!" 

For  the  rest  of  our  drive  the  silence  remains  unbroken.  But 
later  on  there  is  much  conflict  of  words  between  us.  She  insists 
upon  hearing  the  whole  story;  and  under  the  strictest  promise 
of  secrecy,  I  repeat  it  to  her,  with  one  exception;  I  do  not 
tell  her  the  reason  I  gave  for  refusing  him;  I  content  myself 
with  saying  that  I  feel  it  impossible  to  care  sufficiently  for  him. 
She  treats  this  reason  with  hottest  scorn  and  contempt.  Not 
like  a  bright,  handsome  young  fellow  like  that,  the  heir  to  a 
dukedom  and  any  number  of  thousands  a  year!  Preposterous! 
If  he  were  ugly,  ill-tempered,  sickly,  deformed,  extraordinarily 
vicious,  one  could  understand  it;  but  a  young  fellow  with  every 
gift  the  world  values,  and  devoted  to  me  into  the  bargain,  as 
every  one  could  see— it  was  sheer  suicidal  folly. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me,"  I  say,  reproachfully,  " if  you 
really  saw  that  he  cared  for  me  ?" 

"  Because,"  Mrs.  Warrington  returns,  with  exasperation, 
"  such  is  the  delightful  perversity  of  girls,  that  if  they  think  a 
man  likes  them,  or  that  their  friends  want  them  to  marry  him, 
they  immediately  set  their  faces  dead  against  it  and  say  they 
can't  love  him.  Love!"  (wrathfully):  "I  am  sick  of  the  very 
name  of  love!  And  what  do  girls  know  about  it,  pray,  if  they 


DTANA    CARE1V.  167 

are  motlest  and  properly  brought  up?  I  am  more  convinced 
every  day  of  my  life  that  the  French  system  is  the  proper  one — 
don't  allow  girls  to  have  a  voice  in  the  matter.  Love-matches 
indeed!  A  pretty  end  they  generally  come  to!  It  is  almost  al- 
ways the  case  that,  if  you  meet  with  a  married  couple  who  dis- 
like each  other  and  quarrel  more  than  usual,  it  was  a  love- 
match." 

I  dp  not  believe  for  a  moment  that  these  are  my  dear  Mrs. 
Warrington's  real  sentiments;  only,  for  some  cause  or  other,  she 
seems  to  have  set  her  heart  on  my  marrying  Lord  Seldon.  In- 
deed, it  is  a  far  harder  task  to  encounter  all  her  arguments,  her 
entreaties,  her  reasons,  her  insistence,  than  it  was  to  repel  his. 
Finally  she  leaves  me  in  anger.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  would  not 
for  the  world  displease  her  willingly,  and  yet  the  other  alterna- 
tive is  simply  impossible.  I  shut  myself  up  in  my  room;  we 
were  engaged  to  a  ball  that  evening,  but  I  had  no  heart  to  go, 
and  my  hostess  excused  me.  Then,  as  I  lay  on  my  couch,  chew- 
ing the  cud  of  fancies  that  were,  alas!  all  bitter,  a  letter  was 
brought  to  me.  I  knew  the  scrawling  hand,  more  scrawling 
than  ever  to-night;  the  inside  was  blurred  and  blotted,  but 
you  may  depend  I  looked  upon  it  in  no  unkind  spirit  of  criti- 
cism. 

"  DEAREST"  (he  wrote) — "  I  know  I  behaved  like  a  brute  this 
afternoon.  I  lost  my  temper,  and  it  was  very  presumptuous  of 
me  to  be  so  sure  of  you;  but  somehow  I  suppose  I  have  been 
brought  up  to  think  I  had  only  to  ask  and  have,  and  I  dare  say 
it  will  do  me  good  to  have  a  little  of  the  conceit  knocked  out  of 
me.  Only,  darling,  don't,  for  God's  sake,  make  up  your  mind 
against  me;  don't  settle  anything  in  a  hurry.  Perhaps  after  a 
time  you  will  see  that  it's  no  good  thinking  about  that  other  fel- 
low (oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  shoot  him! — what  a  dunder-headed 
ass  he  must  be!);  or  he  may  get  married,  and  you  know  it's  sim- 
ply ridiculous  to  think  that  any  one  so  lovely  as  you  could  ever 
be  allowed  to  be  an  old  maid.  I  can't  think  why  you  will  per- 
sist in  thinking  me  such  a  boy;  lots  of  women  much  older  than 
you  don't,  and,  you  know,  apart  from  my  being  a  long  way  past 
of  age,  I've  seen  a  great  deal  of  life,  and  knocking  about  as  I've 
done  puts  years  on  to  a  fellow. 

"  But  I  can't  believe  seriously  that  my  being  young  is  really 
an  objection  in  your  eyes.  You  surely  don't  want  a  fello\v 
old  enough  to  be  your  father;  though  I  have  heard  of 
girls  taking  odd  fancies.  I'll  wait  a  year,  darling,  if  you  like — 
two  years,  if  it  would  make  you  care  "for  me  any  more.  I  could 
live  on  hope.  All  I  ask  you  is,  just  to  let  me  hope.  If  you 
don't  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  me;  the  very  thought,  as 
I  write  this,  drives  me  nearly  mad.  I've  fancied  myself  in  love 
before,  but  I  swear  to  you  that  I  never  cared  for  anybody  a 
fiftieth  part  as  I  do  for  you,  and  if  you've  heard  stories  about  me 
don't  believe  them,  because  there  are  always  lots  of  people  to  tell 
lies  about  a  fellow.  Then  you  know  how  fond  I  am  of  Curly;  I 
look  upon  him  quite  like  a  brother  already,  and  there  isn't  any- 
thing I  won't  do  for  him  if  you'll  only  give  me  the  chance.  Oh, 


168  DIANA    CAREW. 

Di,  my  darling,  don't  spurn  my  heart's  devotion  and  send  me  to 
the  devil,  for  to  the  devil  I  shall  go  if  you  won't  have  me.  Think 
it  over;  you  may  tell  Mrs.  Warrington,  if  you  like;  I  know  she'll 
stand  my  friend,  and  I  have  no  pride  now,  for  if  you  don't  have 
me  there  is  nothing  more  for  me  in  this  life,  and  I  don't  care  who 
knows  it.  Montagu  has  been  dining  with  me;  he  saw  there  was 
something  up,  and  I  felt  so  bad  that  I  could  not  help  telling 
somebody;  and  he  has  cheered  me  up  a  bit.  Good-night,  my 
dearest  love.  I  feel  I  could  go  on  writing  to  you  all  night,  only 
if  I  wrote  forever  I  couldn't  say  more  than  that  I  love  you  with 
all  my  soul,  and  that  I  shall  always  be  your  most  devoted  slave 
and  worshiper.  SELDON." 

I  read  on  until  I  came  nearly  to  the  end,  full  of  kind  thoughts 
and  regrets  for  the  young  fellow  whose  honest  love  shines 
through  every  line,  but  when  I  reach  the  passage  about  Captain 
Montagu  a  flood  of  anger  rushes  to  my  heart,  the  indignant  tears 
to  my  eyes.  Great  heavens!  was  it  not  enough  before! — and 
now  he  can  coolly  listen  to  Lord  Seldon's  confidences,  and 
"  cheer  him  up."  Cheer  him  up! — that,  I  suppose,  bitterly,  was 
by  holding  out  hopes.  I  fling  the  letter  from  me,  and,  springing 
up,  race  to  and  fro  in  my  room,  in  such  a  storm  of  passionate 
anger  as  I  never  yet  felt,  never  till  this  moment  imagined  I 
could  feel.  Presently  my  rage  subsides  into  grief,  and  I  fling 
myself  on  my  knees  and  sob  my  very  heart  out.  No  matter  that 
it  is  unreasonable,  no  matter  that  I  have  long  ago  renounced  all 
hope  of  being  anything  to  him,  no  matter  that  I  revile  him  to 
myself  and  call  him  heartless,  unfair,  dishonorable:  the  sting  of 
this  new  cruelty  is  none  the  less  sharp.  An  impotent  desire  for 
revenge  takes  possession  of  me  in  this  first  burst  of  outraged  love 
and  pride.  I  think — yes,  I  think  if  it  would  give  him  pain  I 
could  marry  Lord  Seldon  to-morrow.  But  it  would  not:  that  is 
the  sting  of  it.  He  would  doubtless  come  to  the  wedding,  and 
make  the  most  charming,  graceful  speech  on  the  occasion,  and  I 
should  have  spoiled  my  life  for  nothing.  Spoiled  my  life!  I, 
Diana  Carew,  who  have  no  prospect  of  anything  but  humility 
and  poverty,  spoil  my  life  by  marrying  a  man  able  to  give  me 
every  pleasure  and  luxury  the  world  holds!  Ay,  the  world! 
But  then,  I  have  never  looked  there  for  happiness.  I  am  not 
ambitious.  The  first  grief  that  ever  came  into  my  simple 
paradise,  came  with  my  first  glimpse  of  the  world,  the  first 
taste  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  (worldly) 
good  and  evil. 

The  thought  of  an  atmosphere  of  fashion,  of  fine  company, 
fine  houses,  fine  clothes,  fine  jewels,  does  not  warm  my  heart: 
it  only  seems  to  make  more  barren  and  void  a  future  which  I 
should  pass  in  the  perpetual  society  of  a  man  I  could  not  love.  I 
found  him  pleasant  enough  as  a  friend,  but  when  I  force  myself 
to  regard  him  in  the  light  of  the  one  being  to  whom  I  am  to 
look  in  the  future  for  love,  sympathy,  comfort,  my  whole  soul 
revolts.  To  marry  a  man,  too,  against  the  wish  of  his  family! — 
to  be  looked  down  upon  by  them! — in  time,  perhaps  (what  more 
likely  ending  to  a  boyish  fancy  ?)  to  be  treated  with  coldness  and 


DIANA    CAREW.  169 

neglect  by  him!  No:  the  prospect  of  being  Lady  Seldon  might 
seem  fair  enough  to  a  girl  who  had  been  educated  in  the  world's 
creeds,  who  had  been  faithfully  taught  the  worship  of  mammon, 
but  not  to  a  simple  country  girl,  who  values  not  pomp  or  grand- 
eur one  rush  when  they  are  divorced  from  love  and  truth  and 
faith.  To  marry  a  man  simply  because  he  has  a  title  or  money, 
seems  in  my  eyes  the  basest  'degradation.  How  is  it  different 
from  standing  up  in  an  Eastern  market  and  being  knocked  down 
to  the  highest  bidder?  But,  then,  I  am  not  a  well-trained,  well- 
tutored  young  lady;  I  am  only  a  little  girl  who  has  grown  up 
wild  in  the  country,  and  been  allowed  the  run  of  a  library  of 
old-fashioned  romances. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

ONCE  more  I  am  at  home  again,  with  papa  and  Gay,  with  my 
dogs  and  cats,  leading  the  quiet  peaceful  life  of  yore.  I  have 
told  the  stories  of  my  doings  and  seeings  over  and  over  again, 
especially  the  history  of  the  cricket-match  in  which  Eton  came 
off  victorious — of  our  doubts  and  fears  and  ultimate  triumph,  of 
Curly's  intense  excitement,  of  the  words  that  he  said,  the  looks 
that  he  looked.  For  were  they  not  all  chronicled  in  my  heart, 
to  be  the  subjects  of  many  loving  talks  with  papa  and  Gay  at 
home  ? 

I  fondly  hoped  papa  would  not  hear  of  the  little  episode  about 
Lord  Seldon;  indeed,  I*  made  Mrs.  Warrington  promise  faith- 
fully not  to  betray  me;  but  he  did  hear  it,  and  from  Curly, 
of  all  people  in  the  world.  It  appeared  Lord  Seldon  met  him 
on  the  river,  and  they  had  a  long  talk,  in  which  it  came  out,  and 
Curly  was  in  a  state  of  hot  indignation  about  it. 

"  Such  an  aicful  shame,''  he  wrote,  "  and  he  is  so  awfully  cut 
up,  and  swears  he  will  never  marry  anybody  else;  and  he  always 
from  the  first  felt  like  a  brother  to  me,  and  I'm  sure  so  I  do  to 
him,  and  he's  promised,  if  it  ever  does  come  off,  to  do  I  don't  know 
what  for  me,  though  of  course  it  isn't  for  that  I  want  it:  but  he's 
such  a  stunning  good  fellow,  and  so  devotedly  fond  of  Di.  And 
I  didn't  think  Di  could  be  so  heartless;  and  lie  will  be  Duke  of 
Landermere,  and  his  father  is  a  great  invalid,  and  can't  last  very 
long;  though  of  course  he  didn't  tell  me  that.  And,  dad,  I  do 
hope  you  will  persuade  her,  and  make  her  see  reason.  Only 
think  of  her  being  a  duchess,  which  she  would  in  time,  and  he's 
an  earl  now." 

Thus  writes  Curly,  in  hot  and  incoherent  haste:  and  papa,  who 
usually  reads  every  line  aloud  to  me,  having  come  to  a  full  stop, 
goes  on  to  himself. 

"Well?"  1  say,  looking  up  at  the  sudden  pause;  but  papa  is 
reading  on  with  a  vexed  expression  of  face.  A  sudden  horror 
seizes  me  that  our  boy  has  been  getting  into  debt,  or  some  kind 
of  trouble,  and  I  cry,  in.  an  impatient,  frightened  voice,  '•  What 
is  the  matter  ?  Is  anything  wrong  ?" 

Then  my  father,  with  a  sigh  that  has  an  impatient  sound, 
hands  me  the  letter,  and  I  peruse,  with  what  feelings  may  be 


170  DIANA    CAREW. 

better  imagined  than  described,  the  portion  I  have  just  tran- 
scribed. I  read  it  through  to  the  end,  and  lay  it  down  by  my 
plate  without  daring  to  look  up. 

"  Is  it  true  ?"  asks  papa,  presently. 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  paying  particular  attention  to  the  toast  I  am 
buttering  with  great  elaboration,  although  I  have  not  the  re- 
motest intention  of  eating  it;  the  letter  has  taken  away  my  ap- 
petite, and  left  nothing  but  a  choking  sensation  in  my  throat. 

Then  silence  falls  upon  us.  It  will  not  last  very  long,  I  know; 
papa  is  fidgeting  about  and  clearing  his  throat,  with  a  little 
nervous  trick  that  he  has  when  he  is  preparing  to  say  something 
important  or  not  quite  pleasant. 

"  Di,"  he  breaks  out,  at  last,  "  what  makes  you  act  in  such  an 
extraordinary  way  ?  You  have  no  earthly  prospect  but  poverty 
before-  you,  and  yet  you  throw  away  two  such  wonderful,  such 
unlooked-for  chances  of  a  brilliant  future." 

I  try  to  laugh  the  matter  off,  but  my  laugh,  even  in  my  own  ' 
ears,  sounds  most  unmirthful. 

"  You  know,  papa,"  I  say,  "  if  I  had  taken  the  first  chance,  as 
you  call  it,  I  should  never  have  had  the  second,  which  is  much 
greater,  and  who  knows"  (flippantly)  "but  the  third  may  be 
greater  still  ?  I  may  end  by  being  a  princess,  and  then  what  a 
pity  it  would  have  been  if  I  had  taken  the  duke." 

Papa  does  not  laugh;  he  looks  very  grave,  even  to  sternness. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  do  not  understand  you,  Diana,"  he  says. 

At  his  tone,  at  the  sound  of  my  own  name  full  length,  which 
I  have  never  before  heard  from  his  lips,  my  forced  mirth  is  put 
to  a  sudden  and  disorderly  rout,  and  I  fall  to  weeping  bitterly. 

"  Di,"  cries  my  father,  distressed,  "  my  dear  child,  do  not  cry! 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  unkind,  only  your  conduct  puzzles  me  so  ut- 
terly. You  seem  to  me  to  be  acting  like  a  capricious  child. 
Well,  well,"  as  my  sobs  increase,  "  perhaps  you  can  make  me  see 
things  in  a  different  light.  Come,  Di,"  drawing  near,  and  put- 
ting his  hand  fondly  on  my  head,  "  tell  me  what  makes  you  un- 
happy. Am  I  not  your  father  ?  Have  I  any  care  or  interest  in 
the  world  that  does  not  center  in  you  and  Curly  ?" 

It  is  easy  for  him  to  invite  my  confidence — Heaven  knows 
there  is  no  other  subject  in  the  world  on  which  I  would  with- 
hold it — but  to  confess  to  one's  father  one's  miserable,  foolish, 
ignominious,  hopeless  love  for  a  man  who  is  indifferent  to  it, 
what  woman  that  was  ever  created  could  bring  herself  to  so 
shameful  an  utterance  ? 

When  I  have  mastered  my  sobs,  I  walk  to  the  window  and 
look  out.  Papa  has  resumed  his  seat,  and  is  waiting  patiently 
until  the  spirit  shall  move  me  to  speak.  I  stand  for  some  time 
looking  out  at  the  great  clusters  of  roses,  crimson  and  pink,  red 
and  amber,  golden  yellow,  creamy  white,  blush-tinted.  There 
is  a  lovely  bud  within  my  reach,  and  I  turn  to  the  table  for  a 
knife  and  proceed  to  sever  it  from  its  native  bush.  By  this  time 
I  have  recovered  myself. 

"There  is  nothing  much  to  be  said,  papa,"  I  say,  in  a  small 
voice,  leaning  my  head  against  the  window-frame  and  contem- 
plating the  ceiling,  which  I  observe  is  becoming  exceedingly 


DIAXA     CAREW.  171 

dingy.     "  I  don't  see  that  it  follows  one  is  bound  to  marry  a  man 
simply  because  he  asks  one." 

That,  I  comfort  myself,  is  convincingly  put.  Probably  papa 
thinks  so,  too,  for  he'does  not  reply  immediately. 

"No,"  he  answers,  presently,  "if  a  man  asks  a  woman  to 
marry  him,  she  is  certainly  not  bound  to  accept  him  for  that  sim- 
ple reason.  But  if  there  is  nothing  objectionable  about  him,  if 
indeed  she  has  rather  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  his  society,  if 
he  can  offer  her  everything  that  the  world  esteems  worth  having. 
I  think  she  ought  to  reflect  long  and  gravely  before  she  makes 
up  her  mind  to  reject  him.  especially  where,  as  in  your  case,  she 
has  only  the  most  prospectless  future  to  look  forward  to." 

"  I  suppose,"  I  say,  slowly,  looking  from  the  ceiling  to  the 
shabby  chairs,  from  the  shabby  chairs  to  the  shabbier  carpet, 
and  round  again  to  the  shabbiest  curtains,  "  that  the  object  of 
fine  clothes  and  houses,  diamonds  and  horses,  is  to  make  the 
possessor  happy,  is  it  not  ?" 

"If  riches  do  not  make  happiness,  they  undoubtedly  add  a 
great  deal  to  one's  pleasure  in  life,"  remarks  my  father,  tritely. 

"This  room  is  very  dingy  and  shabby,"  I  continue  with  ap- 
parent irrelevancy;  "  and  we  have  never  had  much  luxury,  have 
we  ? — at  least,  I  have  not,"  I  resume. 

"  No,  God  knows!"  murmurs  papa,  a  pained  look  coming  into 
his  dear  kind  face. 

"  Then,"  I  proceed,  resuming  my  contemplation  of  the  ceiling, 
with  my  head  thrown  well  back,  for  I  do  not  want  to  look  him 
in  the  face.  "  I  have  been  brought  up  without  any  of  these 
•wonderful  adjuncts,  and  I  do  not  believe — indeed,  I  am  quite 
sure  "  (emphatically)  "  that  there  was  never  in  this  world  a  hap- 
pier girl  than  I  was." 

"Than  you  u-ere,"  says  papa,  taking  up  my  words  quickly; 
"  I  think  that  is  true.  But,  Di,  can  you  say  truthfully  that  from 
the  moment  you  came  in  contact  with  the  luxuries  and  pleasures 
of  the  world  you  have  been  as  happy  ?  It  is  true  you  have  never 
complained,  because  you  are  unselfish,  God  bless  you,  and  would 
not  pain  me;  but  do  you  think  I  have  not  remarked  the  change 
in  you  since  you  went  to  Warrington,  how  much  quieter  and 
less  full  of  spirits  you  have  been  ?" 

"  That  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  I  cry,  with  hot  eagerness, 
involuntarily  betraying  myself. 

"  Then  what  had  ?"  asks  my  father,  looking  keenly  at  me. 

I  turn  sharply  away  to  hide  my  face.  Then  I  resume  in  haste, 
looking  out  at  the  clusters  of  blown  roses  and  their  fairer  buds. 
"  I  have  never  felt  the  least  envious  of  riches  or  their  possessors; 
none  of  the  people  at  Warrington  seemed  particularly  happy  to 
me,  though  they  laughed,  and  talked  a  great  deal.  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth  was  not  happy,  nor  Mrs,  Huntingdon;  and  even  Mrs.  War- 
rington wants  perpetual  amusement  to  keep  her  from  feeling 
dull.  And  at  Alford,  neither  Sir  Hector  nor  Lady  Montagu 
were  the  least  bit  happy;  and  in  London  most  people  seemed  to 
think  everything  rather  a  bore— at  least  they  said  so.  We  are 
never  bored,  you  and  I,  papa,  are  we?"  I  continue,  able  now  to 
comfort  him  with  a  smile. 


172  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  This  is  begging  the  question,"  says  papa,  answering  my 
smile  with  another.  "  Come,  Di,  my  dear  child,  I  want  you  to 
think  and  act  like  a  sensible,  reasoning  woman;  do  not,  I  entreat 
you,  throw  away  such  a  brilliant  prospect  without  the  gravest 
consideration.  I  am  ambitious  for  you.  I  confess  it.  I  think  " 
(fondly)  "  there  can  be  no  harm  in  saying  it,  since  you  have,  no 
doubt,  heard  it  often  enough  by  this  time— I  think  you  are  in 
every  way  fitted  to  adorn  a  high  station,  in  life;  and  it  would 
make  me  very  happy  to  see  you  placed  in  a  different  sphere  from 
this.  Think,  too,  how  much  you  could  do  for  Curly  if  you  mar- 
ried Lord  Seldon." 

My  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

"  Papa,"  I  cry,  passionately,  "you  know  I  love  you  both;  you 
know  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to  make  you  both  happy; 
it  would  not  seem  hard  to  die  to-morrow  for  either  of  your  sakes; 
but  would  you  sacrifice  all  my  life  just  for  a  few  advantages  that 
I  do  not  value  in  the  least  ?" 

"  Say  no  more,  Di,"  answers  my  father,  sighing.  "  I  suppose "' 
(wearily)  "Providence  orders  everything  for  good."  And  he 
takes  his  paper  and  goes,  leaving  me  a  prey  to  bitter  regrets. 

Why  do  fathers  and  brothers  always  think  it  a  matter  of 
course,  involving  no  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  the  girl,  that  she 
should  give  up  all  her  future  to  a  man  she  neither  loves  nor  re- 
spects, if  only  he  happens  to  be  rich  or  titled  ?  It  is  a  mean, 
base  thing  for  a  man  to  sell  himself,  but  it  is  a  crown  of  glory, 
it  seems,  to  a  woman.  The  same  thing  has  happened  to  most  of 
my  heroines:  some  of  them  have  weakly  yielded,  and,  of  course, 
been  utterly  wretched  ever  after,  Then,  when  it  was  too  late, 
when  they  had  been  driven  to  madness  or  an  early  death,  the 
fathers  and  brothers  had  been  smitten  with  a  tardy  remorse;  but 
what  use  was  that  ?  I  am  determined  that  mine  shall  have  no 
such  cause  for  regret.  I  will  not  mai'ry  against  my  inclination. 
But,  though  I  am  resolute,  my  heart  is  heavy  as  I  think  how,  by 
sacrificing  myself,  I  might  make  the  future  brighter  for  the  two 
beings  whom  I  love  most  in  the  world. 

I  cannot  settle  to  anything  this  morning;  so  I  take  a  book 
from  the  shelves,  call  the  pug,  let  out  the  other  dogs,  and 
betake  myself  to  the  garden.  We  have  a  piece  of  water  in 
our  grounds,  though  not  half  the  size  of  the  one  at  Alford; 
it  is  situated  in  the  midst  of  the  old-fashioned  garden,  half 
vegetable,  half  flower-garden,  planted  with  the  real  old-fash- 
ioned flowers — hollyhocks,  sweet-williams,  Canterbury  bells, 
larkspurs,  blueflags,  and  such  like.  The  banks  are  green  and 
mossy,  and  there  is  shade  from  a  few  fine  old  pine  trees,  inde- 
pendently of  the  apple,  pear,  cherry,  and  mulberry  trees  which 
combine  the  useful  with  the  ornamental.  The  great  lily-leaves 
are  spread  over  most  of  the  lakelet's  surface;  their  proud 
pure- white  flowers  ride  the  glossy  water  triumphantly,  meeting 
and  answering  back  the  sun's  fervent  glances  with  their  golden 
eyes;  there  is  a  hush  fallen  upon  nature;  the  birds  do  not  sing 
these  blazing  July  days. 

I  lie  tranquilly  on  the  bank,  too  indolent  even  to  read,  perhaps 
without  the  heart;  and  I  try  not  to  think,  but  to  let  the  drowsy 


DIANA    CAREW.  173 

heat  creep  through  my  veins  and  lu  "  rue  into  stupor.  No  very 
easy  task,  though,  with  that  very  vivacious  young  lady,  the  pug, 
bent  upon  a  real  good  game  with  her  four-footed  friends.  She 
is  in  a  restless,  worrying  humor  this  morning,  and  the  spaniel 
very  kindly  enters  into  her  mood,  and  between  them  they  play  a 
rampant  game  under  the  bushes  and  over  my  prostrate  form, 
that  is  not  encouraging  to  soft  repose.  Even  the  solemn  old  re- 
triever joins  somewhat  in  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and,  lying 
lazily  on  his  back,  opening  his  shark-like  mouth,  feigns  with  low 
growls  to  swallow  the  pug's  head.  That  active  and  remorseless 
little  beast  does  not  possess  the  excellent  virtue  of  knowing  when 
her  playmates  have  had  enough.  The  spaniel,  tired  out  at  last, 
lays  himself  down  with  lolling  tongue  and  panting  sides,  and 
tries  to  get  a  little  quiet  amusement  out  of  gnawing  the  wing  of 
a  dead  bird.  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Miss  Pug  tears  it  from  him  tooth 
and  nail,  and  a  general  chivy  ensues,  until  the  spaniel's  atten- 
tion is  arrested  by  a  big,  red-finned  fish  leaping  out  of  the  water. 
In  he  springs  with  a  mighty  splash,  whilst  the  pug,  filled  with 
envy  and  admiration,  contemplates  him  from  the  bank.  But 
when  he  reaches  the  center  of  the  widening  circles  his  prey  is 
gone.  Round  and  round  he  swims,  lost  in  amazement,  and 
unable  to  convince  himself  that  it  has  disappeared  from  the  face 
of  the  waters.  Again  it  leaps  further  oft,  and  he  hurries  after  it, 
only  to  meet  the  same  disappointment. 

"  Here  you  are!"  exclaims  a  kind,  merry  voice  behind  me,  and, 
starting  up,  I  see  Claire  Fane  equipped  in  her  neat  blue  habit, 
looking  down  upon  me. 

"  You  good  fairy!"  I  cry,  joyfully,  "to  come  just  at  the  very 
moment  of  all  others  that  you  are  wanted!  I  was  feeling  so  dull, 
and  what  you  fashionable  people  call  desoeuvree." 

"  That  is  the  penalty  you  pay  for  going  into  the  fashionable 
world,"  she  answers,  gayly.  "  I  have  come  to  hear  all  about 
your  grand  doings." 

She  links  her  arm  in  mine,  and  we  go  toward  the  old  mulberry - 
free  that  overhangs  the  water,  and  under  which  there  is  a  bench. 
Claire  takes  her  seat  upon  it,  and  I  throw  myself  down  at  her 
feet  with  my  arms  in  her  lap,  so  that  I  can  command  a  good  view 
of  her  kind,  pretty  face.  It  beams  and  smiles  so  sweetly  and 
{sympathetically  upon  me,  and  I  feel  so  forlorn  and  miserable, 
that  I  yield  to  the  great  impulse  that  besets  me  to  pour  out  my 
heart  to  her. 

"I  wish,"  I  say  earnestly,  "that  I  had  never  been  into  the 
fashionable  world — never  been  away  from  this  dull  quiet  place, 
where  I  was  always  so  happy  before!" 

"  And  you  are  not  happy  now — not  quite  happy?  I  can  read 
that  in  your  face,"  she  says,  in  her  sweet,  grave  voice.  "Tell 
me,  dear,  how  is  it  ?" 

For  all  my  answer  I  bury  my  face  in  her  lap  and  cry  as  if  my 
heart  would  break.  She  does  not  interrupt  me  with  importu- 
nate questions;  she  only  lets  her  hand  wander  softly  over  my 
hair,  and  waits  until  the  fit  is  over  and  I  care  to  speak  again. 

"  Claire,"  I  say,  when  my  sobs  have  at  last  died  away;  "  you 
are  so  good.  Tell  me,  how  is  it  that  we  are  allowed  to  think  the 


174  DIANA    CAREW. 

•world  such  a  bright,  happy  place,  and  when  we  come  to  see  it 
nearer  and  live  in  it  we  are  to  be  so  miserably  disappointed  ?" 

"Indeed,  dear,  I  cannot  tell,"  she  answers,  softly,  still  stroking 
my  hair.  "  But  there  is  one  thing  I  am  quite  sure  of,  and  that  is 
that  we  do  not  really  know  what  is  good  for  us,  and  that  often 
and  often  if  we  had  the  things  we  long  for  so  ardently  we  should 
come  to  look  on  the  gratifying  of  our  wishes  as  our  heaviest 
punishment.  Perhaps,  indeed,  I  think "  (looking  at  me  ear- 
nestly), "  that  would  be  your  case." 

I  turn  my  eyes  away  from  her  face  and  look  up  the  long  green 
vista  over  which  the  apple-trees  are  stretching  their  crooked 
arms  toward  each  other. 

"  Do  you  know  then,"  I  ask,  in  a  low  voice,  "  what  it  is  that 
makes  me  unhappy?" 

"  I  think  I  do  "  (pressing  my  hand).  "  Will  you  be  vexed  if  I 
guess  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answer,  feeling  almost  sure  of  my  secret. 

"  I  think,  then,  that  you  are  unhappy  about  Charlie  Montagu." 

No  need  to  speak:  my  face  tells  her  at  once  that  she  has 
guessed  aright. 

"  How  do  you  know?"  I  ask,  quickly.  "  Who  could  have  told 
you  ?"  And  then  I  go  on  eagerly,  wishing  to  defend  him  and 
myself  too.  "  He  can  never  be  anything  to  me.  I  always  knew 
it  from  the  first.  Oh,  Claire,  do  not  think  for  one  instant  that  I 
have  any  thought  of  him.  Indeed — indeed,  I  always  knew  it 
was  impossible;  and"  (apologetically)  "I  had  never  seen  any- 
thing of  the  world;  I  was  not  prepared " 

l<  My  dear,"  she  interrupts  me,  softly,  "  I  do  not  think  that 
any  amount  of  preparation  makes  any  difference  in  a  case  of 
this  kind.  But,  since  you  know  that  it  is  only  wasting  yovtr 
heart  to  care  for  Charlie,  tell  me,  why  cannot  you  bring  yourself 
to  think  of  some  one  who  I  am  sure  could  and  would  make  you 
very  happy,  and  who  loves  you  with  all  his  heart?" 

My  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her  face  as  she  speaks.  I  see  the  faint 
color,  like  the  heart  of  a  rare  shell,  grow  in  her  face.  I  hear 
the  slight  tremor  in  her  voice.  I  feel  the  faint  quiver  in  her 
fingers  that  grasp  mine.  I  know  quite  well  of  whom  she  speaks: 
she  is  pleading  with  me  the  cause  of  the  man  she  loves. 

Looking  at  her,  seeing  how  fair  and  feeling  in  the  very  depths 
of  my  heart  how  good  she  is,  a  wonder  creeps  over  me  that  he 
can  be  so  blind,  so  dull,  as,  having  all  that  is  sweet  and  pure 
and  good,  all  that  I  have  heard  him  praise  and  value  a  thousand 
times,  within  so  easy  reach,  only  to  stretch  out  his  hand  and 
take,  to  reject  it  and  want  something  so  far  meaner,  poorer, 
smaller.  The  wonder  is  so  great  that,  however  silly  and  tactless 
it  may  seem,  I  cannot  but  speak  out  my  mind. 

"  How  can  he  care  for  me,"  I  say,  with  the  strongest  accent 
of  astonishment  of  which  my  voice  is  capable,  "  when  he  must 
see  in  you  everything  that  he  most  admires  ?" 

It  is  she  who  turns  her  head  away,  she  who  is  pained  and  em  • 
barrassed  now;  it  is  my  eyes  which  dwell  searchingly  upon  her 
face. 

"  Hush!"  she  says;  "  I  am  getting  an  old  woman.    1  am  as  old 


DIANA    CAREW.  175 

or  older  than  he.  We  look  upon  each  >ther  as  brother  and 
Bister." 

"If,  now,"  I  continue,  pursuing  my  thoughts  aloud,  with  un- 
intentional cruelty,  "  it  had  been  he  who  cared  for  you  and  you 
who  did  not  love  him,  it  would  have  been  most  natural." 

"  You  are  prejudiced,"  she  answers,  quietly.  "I  do  not  be- 
lieve the  man  exists  who  is  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love  than 
Hector.  And,  dear  Di,  if  you  knew  him  as  I  do,  if  you  could 
only  see,  through  the  mask  of  reserve  and  shyness  that  he  wears, 
how  really  unselfish  and  noble  he  is,  you  would  love  him  too, 
and  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world." 

For  a  moment,  for  one  moment  only,  a  doubt  creeps  into  my 
mind  whether  she  really  cares  for  him.  Is  it  possible  for  any- 
thing so  magnanimous  to  breathe  as  a  woman  who  loves  a  man 
pleading  for  him  to  another  woman  ? 

"  How  do  you  know,"  I  ask,  -'that  he  cares  for  me?  Has 
papa  told  you  ?" 

"  He  told  me  himself,"  she  answers,  slowly. 

I  feel  enraged  at  this  wanton,  selfish  cruelty  on  his  part:  he 
must  know  that  she  loves  him. 

"  "When?"  I  ask,  briefly,  knowing  that  to  say  anything  against 
him  would  be  to  give  her  double  pain. 

"  Soon  after  his  father  died.  Oh,  Di  "  (very  earnestly),  "  you 
must  take  pity  upon  him.  I  never  saw  a  man  look  so  haggard 
and  miserable  in  my  life." 

"  That  was  not  on  my  account,"  I  say,  impatiently.  "  Hector 
Montagu  is  not  at  all  a  man  to  be  desperately  in  love  with  any 
woman." 

"  You  do  not  know  him,*'  she  answers,  quickly.  "  You  are 
like  every  one  else:  you  judge  him  by  that  cold  manner  which  is 
only  put  on  to  hide  the  intense  strength  and  depth  of  his  feel- 
ings. He  owned  to  me  himself  that  he  suffers  so  dreadfully 
from  your  refusal  of  him  that  he  feels  at  times  as  if  his  reason 
would  give  way.  Oh,  dear  Di,  I  entreat  you,  don't  set  yourself 
against  him  so  determinedly;  try  to  care  a  little  for  him!" 

"What!  you,  too?''  I  cry  with  hot  indignation.  "Is  every 
one  bent  on  ruining  my  life?  Oh,  Claire!  of  all  people  in  the 
world  I  should  not  have  expected  you  to  give  me  such  bad 
advice.  Why,  I  should  be  committing  a  positive  crime  to  marry 
a  man  feeling  toward  him  as  I  do  to  Mr.  Montagu!" 

Somehow  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  call  him  by  his  new  title. 
I  should  like  him  even  less  with  that  name,  which  reminds  me 
only  of  a  harsh,  arbitrary,  selfish  man. 

At  this  moment  the  dogs  spring  up  simultaneously  and  bound 
off,  and  in  the  distance  we  catch  sight  of  papa  coming  toward 
us.  I  always  see  more  of  him  when  Claire  conies. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

TIME  passes  by  with  lagging  footsteps;  I  fancy  his  scythe  has 
grown  rusty,  BO  slowly  and  lingeringly  it  hacks  and  hews  at  the 
hours  it  used  to  crop  swiftly  enough  of  old.  I  wake  in  the 


176  DIANA    CAREW. 

morning  with  a  dull  sense  of  oppression,  a  feeling  of  misgiving 
that  there  is  something  wrong,  before  even  I  am  wide  awake 
enough  to  be  conscious  of  reality.  The  mornings  that  used  to 
be  so  short,  how  long  they  are  now!  How  weary  the  hours  from 
breakfast  to  lunch!  What  an  eternity  from  lunch  to  dinner!  I 
have  no  heart  to  read :  is  not  my  own  unhappy  romance  suffi- 
cient for  me?  Less  heart  to  sing;  for  how  can  I  sing  without 
remembering  him  ? 

If  I  try  to  work,  my  hands  fall  idle,  and  my  thoughts  go  back 
to  the  one  golden  day  in  May,  which  has  made  dark  all  the  days 
that  follow.  What  is  sunshine,  what  sweet  scents,  soft  breezes, 
fair  scenes,  to  a  soul  out  of  tune!  Take  away  happiness  and 
leave  all  that  nature  can  give,  and  it  is  utterly  barren  and  void; 
but  take  sunshine,  melody,  zephyrs,  and  leave  love  and  happi- 
ness, and  the  world  is  yet  full  enough  of  joy;  give  both  to- 
gether, and  you  have,  not  this  world,  but  heaven.  I  am  reluc- 
tant, almost,  to  visit  my  poor;  even  they  seem  less  to  be  pitied 
than  formerly,  when  I  came  out  from  their  poor  hovels  into  the 
sunshine  thanking  God  who  had  made  me  different. 

The  long  summer  days  creep  on.  When  the  great  sun  sets  in 
his  glorious  flood  of  golden  waves  behind  the  dark  firs,  I  sigh, 
and  say,  as  though  a  weight  were  lifted  from  my  soul:  There  is 
another  day  gone.  But  the  thought  follows:  Are  there  not  a 
thousand  more  days  in  store  for  you,  each  one  as  long,  as  dull, 
as  prospectless  ?  And  yet  they  say  life  is  short.  I  begin  to  un- 
derstand how  it  is  with  those  who  say  in  the  evening:  "  Would 
to  God  it  were  morning!"  and  in  the  morning:  "  Would  to  God  the 
day  were  done!" 

But  Curly  is  coming  home;  it  will  be  different  then;  I  shall 
brighten  up,  and  forget  that  I  have  been  unhappy. 

A  few  more  long,  weary  days,  in  which  I  try  to  busy  myself 
with  preparations  for  his  home-coming,  decorating  his  room, 
polishing  his  gun,  putting  his  fishing-tackle  in  order,  and  here 
he  is  at  last.  He,  at  all  events,  is  not  changed;  there  has  been 
nothing  yet  to  sadden  or  sober  him;  his  voice  is  as  ringing,  his 
blue  eyes  as  full  of  mirth,  his  bright  face — God  bless  it— as  hand- 
some as  ever.  He  is  just  as  affectionate,  as  glad  to  get  back  to 
us,  as  contented  and  pleased  with  everything,  as  he  always  was. 
It  is  quite  clear  to  me  that  he  has  made  up  his  mind  I  shall  be 
Lady  Seldon,  or,  as  he  will  always  have  it,  Duchess  of  Lander- 
mere.  He  is  a  stanch  friend,  and  returns  loyally  to  the  charge 
again  and  again,  undaunted  by  what  he  is  pleased  to  call  my 
wicked  perversity. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  marry  at  all,  Curly,"  I  reiterate.  "  I  shall 
be  an  old  maid,  and  keep  house  for  you." 

"Many  thanks!"  he  says,  coolly;  "but  that  sort  of  thing 
never  answers.  You  and  my  wife  would  be  sure  to  quarrel  like 
blazes." 

"  Oh!"  I  return,  opening  my  eyes,  "  you  have  a  wife  in  view, 
then,  have  you?" 

"  Of  course  I  have,"  he  says,  magnificently.  "  I  am  convinced 
there  is  nothing  steadies  a  fellow  like  marrying  young,  Really, 


DIANA    CAREW.  177 

Di,  I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,"  as  I  greet  this  anmounce- 
ment  with  a  burst  of  unrestrained  merriment. 

We  are  sitting  at  breakfast,  one  morning  toward  the  end  of 
August,  when  the  post-bag  is  brought  in.  Papa  gives  me  a  let- 
ter with  an  elaborately  heavy  monogram,  addressed  in  a  hand 
which  puzzles  me  at  first  sight  to  decide  whether  it  is  a  man's  or 
a  woman's.  A  letter  is  so  rare  an  event  with  me  that  I  like  to 
make  as  much  as  possible  of  it,  by  minutely  examining  the  ex- 
terior, and  guessing  at  its  possible  contents,  before  I  proceed  to 
make  myself  master  of  them.  I  am  trying  to  decipher  the  let- 
ters of  the  monogram,  when  a  jubilant  exclamation  from  Curly 
causes  me  to  look  up. 

"  Hurrah!    Here,  dad,  cast  your  eye  over  this." 

"  My  dear  Curly,"  papa  reads  aloud,  and,  having  read  so  much, 
turns  with  some  curiosity  to  the  signature.  "  Gwyneth  Desbor- 
ough,"  he  says,  raising  his  eyebrows, 

I  can  see  distinctly,  as  he  holds  the  letter,  that  the  large,  mas- 
culine hand  is  the  same  as  that  in  which  my  letter  is  addressed. 
Papa  reads  on: 

"  You  promised  me  a  visit,  and  I  want  you  to  come  over  on 
the  thirty-first  and  have  a  shot  at  the  partridges.  We  shall 
only  be  a  small  party,  the  Warringtons  and  Colonel  Montagu 
among  them,  but  there  will  be  good  sport,  and  you  must  come. 
I  jShall  take  no  denial,  but  ride  over  and  fetch  you  myself  if 
you  send  an  excuse.  I've  just  bought  a  lovely  chestnut  mare. 
You  shall  ride  her,  for  she  wants  very  light  handling,  and  I 
have  not  allowed  any  one  to  get  on  her  back  but  myself  yet. 
We'll  have  some  jolly  rides  together.  By  the  same  post  I  have 
written  your  sister. 

"  Most  sincerely  yours, 

"  GWYNETH  DESBOROUOH." 

A  feeling  of  blighting  disappointment  comes  across  me.  There 
is  so  little  time  left  for  Curly  to  be  with  us,  not  much  more  than 
three  weeks,  and  this  woman,  whom  I  dislike  more  than  any  one 
I  have  ever  met,  is  to  take  our  boy  from  us. 

"Quick,  Di,  read  your  letter,"  cries  Curly.  "Oh,  dad,  how 
awfully  jolly  it  will  be!'' 

"  Then  you  have  quite  made  up  your  mind  to  go?"  says  papa, 
a  twinge  of  pain  contracting  his  face. 

"  Oh,  dad!"  answers  our  boy,  his  bright  face  falling,  "  it  would 
be  such  a  chance.  But  of  course"  (ruefully),  "if  you  ob- 
ject  "  And  there  he  pauses,  not  having  the  heart  to  offer  to 

give  it  up. 

Meantime  I  have  opened  my  letter,  and  read: 

"DEAR  Miss  CAREW,— I  hope  your  brother  will  be  able  to 
come  to  us  on  the  31st,  and  it  will  give  us  much  pleasure  if  you 
will  accompany  him.  If  you  care  for  riding,  and  will  bring 
your  habit,  I  have  one  or  two  quiet  horses  in  the  stable  that 
might  suit  you." 

"  Lady  Gwyneth  is  very  kind,"  I  say,  with  a  curling  lip;  "  but 
I  shall  not  tax  her  hospitality." 


(78  DIANA  CAREW. 

"  Why  is  that,  Di?"  asks  papa." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  hate  her,"  I  return,  vindictively.  "She 
is  a  horrid  woman!" 

"  Don't  believe  her,  dad!"  cries  Curly,  flushing  up.  "She's  an 
awfully  nice  woman,  and  I  like  her  tremendously.  Eeally,  Di, 
I  wonder  at  you;  you  used  not  to  be  spiteful." 

"  I  am  not  spiteful,"  I  retort,  vindicating  myself  with  some 
warmth.  "  You  would  not  like  her,  papa.  She  cuts  her  hair 
short,  and  tries  to  be  like  a  man,  and  talks  loud,  and  smokes, 
and  says  rude  things  to  everybody." 

"  Not  a  very  pleasant  picture,  certainly,"  papa  remarks. 
"  Well,  Curly,  what  have  you  to  say  for  the  defense  ?" 

"  I  know  she  was  awfully  nice  and  kind  to  me,"  replies  Curly; 
"  but,  of  course,  women  never  have  a  good  word  for  each  other." 

Papa  and  I  exchange  a  smile. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  says  papa,  "  don't  take  opinions  at  second- 
hand, particularly  on  the  subject  of  women.  If  you  don't  find 
out,  when  your  turn  for  the  experience  comes,  that  there  are 
plenty  of  women  who  are  neither  jealous,  nor  spiteful,  nor  self- 
ish, why,  it  will  be  a  very  unlucky  one,  and  very  different  from 
mine." 

"  All  right,  dad,"  remarks  Curly,  getting  up,  and  indulging  in 
a  soft  whistle  to  himself  as  he  goes  out  of  the  room. 

"  I  suppose  he  must  go,"  I  say,  in  a  dejected  tone,  as  the  door 
closes. 

"If  he  does,"  papa  answers,  "  I  should  like  you  to  go  with 
him." 

"  That  I  will  not!"  I  cry,  hastily.  "  There  is  nothing  I  should 
dislike  so  much;  and  it  is  easy  enough  to  see  by  her  letter  that 
she  only  asks  me  out  of  bare  civility." 

"  My  dear,"  papa  returns,  with  decision,  "  I  most  particularly 
wish  you  to  go  if  Curly  does;  and  I  suppose  "  (sighing)  "  we  must 
not  disappoint  him.  I  fancy  it  is  rather  a  fast  kind  of  house; 
and  I  should  not  like  him  to  be  there  alone.  Your  presence 
•would  be  a  restraint  upon  him,  and  if  you  saw  anything  you  did 
not  approve  you  could  write  to  me,  and  I  would  make  an  excuse 
for  summoning  you  both  home.  I  know  there  are  many  men 
and  women  who  (more  shame  to  them)  like  to  draw  a  boy  put 
and  make  a  fool  of  him,  whilst  all  the  time  he  is  thinking  him- 
self a  very  fine  fellow.  If,"  papa  adds,  sorrowfully,  "  I  could 
have  pleasant  parties  for  him  at  home,  and  invite  his  friends 
here,  I  would  not  hear  of  his  going  to  Lady  Gwyneth's;  but, 
under  existing  circumstances.  I  have  no  heart  to  deny  him  a 
pleasure  that  he  covets  so  much." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  I  entreat,  "  don't  ask  me  to  go.  I  should  hate  it 
so." 

"But  Mrs.  Warrington  will  be  there,  You  will  in  all  proba- 
bility see  very  little  of  your  hostess.  Well,  well,  I  leave  it  to 
you  and  Curly  to  settle  between  you." 

Need  I  say  what  the  result  is  ?  Of  course  I  consent,  and  when 
the  day  comes,  however  reluctant,  however  prescient  of  an  un- 
pleasant "  time,"  of  course  I  go." 


DIANA    CAREW.  179 

"  I  wonder  who  Colonel  Montagu  is?"  says  Curly:  "  some  re- 
lation of  the  Alford  people,  I  suppose." 

"  Sir  Hector  had  a  brother,  Colonel  Montagu,"  I  respond, 
briefly. 

"  That's  who  it  is,  then,  of  course." 

This  is  the  second  time  that  Curly  and  I  are  starting  on  a  -visit 
together.  He  is  even  more  joyous  and  full  of  anticipation  than 
when  we  were  going  to  Warrington;  but  as  for  me,  my  heart  is 
like  lead  within  me:  every  step  that  takes  us  nearer  to  the  Cas- 
tle sends  my  spirits  an  infinitesimal  bit  lower.  It  is  a  long  drive, 
but  we  come  at  last  to  the  castellated  lodge,  and  the  gates  are 
opened  for  us. 

"  'Leave  all  hope,  ye  who  enter  here,'"  I  think,  dismally  to 
myself,  as  they  shut  with  a  clang  behind  us.  Why  does  this 
strange  foreboding  hang  like  lead  upon  me  ? 

The  drive  up  to  the  house  is  magnificent,  through  an  avenue 
of  the  grandest,  stateliest  trees  I  have  ever  seen,  and  after  half 
a  mile  of  them  we  emerge  from  their  splendid  gloom  into  abroad 
space  all  ablaze  with  vivid  glorious  color,  whence  not  one  subtle 
shade  of  the  prism  seems  wanting. 

As  we  descend  from  the  carriage,  some  one  comes  toward  me 
from  the  broad  doorway.  No,  not  for  the  fairest  gift  in  the 
world,  not  to  save  my  own  head,  can  I  keep  back  the  traitorous 
blood  from  my  face,  or  the  tremulous  quiver  from  the  hand  that 
he  takes  in  his.  It  is  Captain  Montagu. 

"  What!  you  here  ?"  cries  my  brother,  with  enthusiasm.  "  How 
jolly!  Why,  Lady  Gwyneth  wrote  that  Colonel  Montagu  was 
coming,  and  we  fhought  it  must  be  your  uncle." 

"  Myself.  '  Not  Launcelot,  nor  another!'  "  he  answers,  laugh- 
ing. "  Did  you  not  hear  that  I  had  got  my  step?" 

"No;  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  a  colonel.  Well,  you're 
a  jolly  young  one,  at  all  events,"  returns  Curly.  "  Where's  Lady 
Gwyneth  ?" 

"  She  has  gone  out  riding,  and  left  me  to  do  M.  C.  She  told 
me  to  tell  you,  if  you  came  in  pretty  good  time,  that  you  were  to 
be  sure  and  go  to  meet  them;  there  is  a  horse  ready,  and  a  man 
to  show  you  the  way.  Off  with  you."  And  Curly,  needing  no 
second  bidding,  darts  away  like  a  shot.  "  Won't  you  come  into 
the  garden  ?"  he  adds  to  me;  "it  is  much  pleasanter  than  the 
house.  By  the  way,  have  some  tea  first;  Lady  Gwyn  com- 
missioned me  to  look  after  you,  and  do  everything  that  was 
right." 

"  No  tea,  thank  you.  Yes,  I  should  like  to  see  the  gardens." 
And  we  stroll  away  together. 

If  I  had  only  guessed  this,  I  tell  myself,  not  all  the  brothers  in 
the  world  should  have  got  me  here;  and  yet  my  traitorous  soul 
keeps  giving  little  throbs  of  pleasure  at  being  near  him  once 
more,  at  looking  through  my  furtive  eyes  at  his  handsome, 
pleasant  face. 

"  I  did  not  know  until  to-day  that  you  were  coming,"  he  says, 
as  we  turn  off  the  broad  terrace  on  to  the  turf.  "  Have  you  been 

here  before  ? — I  mean  in  the  old  time  when  poor  B had  it. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  charming  houses  in  the  country.    Now" 


180  DIANA    CAREW. 

(and  he  turns  with  an  accent  of  disgust  and  looks  up  at  the  great 
structure),  "horrible,  isn't  it?" 

I  take  a  long  survey  of  the  range  of  building.  To  the  right  is 
the  old  part,  gray  with  age,  stained,  moss-grown,  weather-worn, 
but  stately  and  regal;  and  to  the  left,  brand-new,  garish,  with 
plate-glass  windows,  and  a  trumpery  attempt  at  imitation  of 
the  veteran  building,  is  the  gigantic  wing  built  by  its  present 
owner. 

"  Look  at  all  the  brand -new  coats-of-arms  of  the  Desboroughs," 
says  my  companion,  laughing;  "  and  see  justthat  one  of  thelata 
owner  over  the  doorway;  the  coronet  is  nearly  worn  away  with 
age.  Poor  fellow!  he  did  a  bad  stroke  of  work  for  himself,  when 
he  helped  his  father  to  cut  off  the  entail.  By  Jove!  I  never  saw 
a  family  go  to  the  devil  as  they  have  done." 

"  I  should  have  thought  Lady  Gwyneth,  at  all  events,  would 
have  had  better  taste,"  I  say,  replying  to  the  first  part  of  his 
sentence. 

"  Poor  Lady  Gwyneth!  she  declares  this  palace  is  a  perfect 
nightmare  to  her:  you  know  it  was  all  done  before  her  time, 
and,  as  she  says,  these  nouveaux  riches  can't  shake  themselves 
free  of  their  own  newness:  they  don't  fancy  anything  unless  it 
is  fresh  from  the  shop." 

"  It  is  very  nice  and  wifely  of  her  to  say  such  things,"  I  re- 
turn, dryly;  and  then  with  energy,  "  It  is  mean  and  despicable 
enough  of  a  woman  to  marry  for  money  under  any  circum- 
stances, but  I  think  it  is  far  meaner  to  ridicule  and  hold  up  to 
contempt  the  man  to  whom  she  is  indebted  for  everything. 

We  are  walking  down  the  long  green  slopes  to  the  lake  lying' 
in  a  vast  hollow.  He  turns  to  me  with  lazy  amusement  in  his. 
eyes, 

"  Poor  little  Lady  Gwyn!"  he  utters.  "  But  you  never  did  like 
her,  I  remember." 

"  Never  "  (with  energy).  "  I  dare  say  you  think  it  strange  my 
coming  here  at  all.  I  did  not  want  to:  it  was  only  to  please 
Curly.  Papa  would  not  let  him  come  without  me." 

We  have  reached  the  water:  by  its  margin  are  clumps  of  shady 
trees,  with  seats  under  their  wide  branches,  and  here  we  seat 
ourselves. 

"  Charming  piece  of  water,  is  it  not?"  he  says.  "  I  wonder  if 
there  are  any  carp  in  it  ?  Do  you  remember  our  carp-fishing 
that  gold "  (hesitating)  "  that  day  at  Alford  ?" 

"  I  remember  your  catching  some  in  a  net,"  I  answer,  trying 
to  speak  indifferently. 

"  In  the  net  ? — yes,"  he  echoes,  absently.  "  By  the  way,  have 
you  seen  Hector  since  he  has  been  invested  with  his  new  dig- 
nity ?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since  I  was  at  Alford." 

There  is  a  pause,  during  which  I  look  away  at  the  far  blue 
cloudless  sky,  at  the  shining  water,  at  the  rushes,  at  the  sloping 
sward,  at  everything  but  him,  and  he,  I  feel,  has  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  me. 

"And  so,"  he  says,  presently,  after  sating  his  curiosity  or 


DIANA    CAREW.  181 

whatever  other  feeling  may  have  impelled  his  long  gaze — "  And 
eo  you  refused  Seldon  ?" 

"  I  never  said  so,"  I  quickly  replied. 

"No;  but  he  did.  Poor  lad!  he  was  awfully  cut  up,  and  but- 
tonholed everybody  about  his  hopeless  suit,  Lady  Egidia  nearly 
caught  him  at  the  rebound,  but  not  quite." 

I  make  no  answer.  I  am  wishing  with  bitter  energy  that  I 
had  not  come. 

"  You  do  not  approve  of  any  but  love  marriages,"  he  goes  on, 
cruelly.  "  I  wonder  you  still  believe  in  love,  after  having  gone 
through  a  London  season.  Most  of  the  people  I  know  who  get 
on  worst  married  for  love.  What  is  that  French  saying — you 
would  not  know  it,  of  course,  though,  and  I  never  could  remem- 
ber a  quotation  in  my  life.  Let  me  see  "  (trying  to  think),  "  it  is 
a  propos  of  marriage — so  many  months  of  worship,  so  many 
years  of  hatred,  and  the  rest  indifference.  Under  these  circum- 
stance it  does  not  much  matter  whom  one  marries ;  does  it  ?'; 

"  Under  those  circumstances,  no,"  I  answer,  coldly, 

"  I  suppose,"  he  continues,  "  if  you  think  it  mean  and  despica- 
ble in  a  woman  to  marry  for  money,  you  would  think  it  still 
worse  in  a  man,  should  you  not  ?  Suppose,  for  instance,  I  were 
to  tell  you  that  I  think  of  contracting  an  alliance  with  the  cousin 
of  our  host;  you  would  feel  a  great  contempt  for  me— perhaps 
never  speak  to  me  again  ?" 

I  answer  him  by  never  a  word. 

' '  Perhaps  you  may  not  know  that  Desborough  has  a  cousin, 
the  only  child  of  his  uncle,  who  was  partner  with  his  father; 
only  this  one  was  not  filled  with  a  lofty  ambition  like  his  brother, 
did  not  change  his  name  to  Desborough,  nor  anything  else,  but 
was  contented  with  the  homely  appellation  of*  Puggins.  Miss 
Puggins  is  not  lovely;  she  has  reddish  hair,  freckles,  a  soap-and- 
candle  kind  of  complexion,  and  hands — not  hands,  paws.  But 
Miss  Puggins  will  have  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  on  her  wed- 
ding-day, and  another  hundred  thousand  at  the  demise  of  Pug- 
gins pere  ;  and  Lady  Gwyneth,  who  is  very  good-natured,  though 
you  do  not  like  her,  is  doing  her  best  to  make  up  the  match. 

I  look  up  at  him 

"  With  some  surprise,  and  thrice  as  much  disdain," 
but  never  a  word  do  I  answer." 

"You  have  a  very  speaking  countenance,"  he  says,  turning 
away  from  me. 

"  Have  I?"  I  cry,  my  passionate  anger  and  contempt  breaking 
into  words  at  last.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  should  like  to  be 
sure  that  I  look  what  I  feel,  for  there  are  no  words  that  I  know 
of  which  would  express  it." 

A  strange  look  comes  over  his  face  as  I  speak.  Suddenly  he 
stretches  out  his  arms  to  me. 

"  Oh,  darling,  for  God's  sake!"  he  cries,  and  then  turns  sharply 
and  walks  away  from  me  along  the  lake's  margin. 

And  I,  maddened  with  bitter  pain  and  anger,  take  my  way 
swiftly  back  to  the  house. 


182  DIANA    CAREW. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

MY  cup  is  not  yet  full.  I  hear  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warrington 
are  not  coming:  he  has  slightly  sprained  his  ankle,  and  is  unable 
to  walk.  I  learn  something  also  that  vexes  me  still  more:  Lord 
Rexborough  is  here. 

"  Such  a  jolly  party!"  Curly  tells  me,  with  enthusiasm;  "  and 
only  a  small  one,  which  makes  it  all  the  pleasanter;  though  I'm 
awfully  borry  about  poor  old  Warrington.  Lady  Gwyneth's 
sister,  Lady  Audrey,  just  as  jolly  as  Lady  Gwyn.  Miss  Puggins, 
Desborough's  cousin — such  a  caution!"  (subsiding  into  laughter); 
"  but  I'm  not  to  make  fun  of  her,  because  Lady  Gwyn  wants  to 
get  up  a  match  between  her  and  Charlie  Montagu.  Fancy,  Di, 
a  good-looking  chap  like  that  taking  up  with  Miss  Puggins.' 
Puggins — by  jingo!  what  a  name!  I  don't  wonder  at  her  want- 
ing to  change  it.  That  makes  four  ladies,  with  you,  and  we  four 
men;  so  we're  just  complete.  I  wouldn't  mind  changing  that 
little  snob  Desborough  for  some  one  else — say  Seldon,  for  in- 
stance" (with  a  sly  glance  at  me).  "And,  Di"  (frowning  a 
little),  "  I  say,  do  make  up  your  mind  to  be  pleasant  and  civil  to 
Lady  Gwyn.  I'm  sure  you'd  like  her  if  you  knew  her  as  well  as 
I  do." 

"  Grant  me  patience!"  I  think;  but  I  answer  by  a  smile.  If 
I  am  unhappy  and  dissatisfied  at  being  here,  that  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  wish  to  infect  him  with  my  discontent. 

I  do  not  meet  my  hostess  until  we  are  assembled  before  din- 
ner. She  greets  me  with  much  politeness,  not  to  say  cordiality, 
and  I  cannot  help  thinking  that,  so  far,  she  shines  to  more  ad- 
vantage in  her  own  house  than  she  did  at  Warrington.  Her  sis- 
ter is  a  second  edition  of  herself;  if  anything,  rather  noisier  and 
more  free  of  speech.  Lord  Rexborough  greets  me  effusively; 
my  host,  who  looks  smaller  and  more  snobbish  than  ever,  treats 
me  with  patronizing  civility. 

"  So  we  are  reduced  to  eight,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  addressing 
Lord  Rexborough—"  a  most  odious  number,  particularly  at  din- 
ner, where  it  entails  two  men  and  two  women  sitting  together." 

"  Can't  be  helped,"  he  answers.  "  Only  having  a  lady  on  one 
side  of  you,  you  can't  make  the  other  jealous,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  one  of  the  fortunate  ones,"  laughs  Lady 
Gwyneth.  "  Knowing  your  proclivities,  I  have  taken  care  that 
you  sha'n't  be  left  out  in  the  cold." 

Here  dinner  is  announced.  Mr.  Desborough  takes  me  (I  sup- 
pose he  could  not  very  well  take  any  one  else).  After  all,  it  is 
just  as  well.  I  would  rather  sit  next  to  him  than  Lord  Rexbor- 
ough; and  Curly  could  not  take  his  own  sister.  As  for  Captain 
Montagu  (I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  of  him  as  colonel),  he, 
of  course,  has  the  heiress  assigned  him;  and  Heaven  knows  the 
less  I  speak  to  him  the  less  likely  am  I  to  feel  bitter  and  misera- 
ble. Lady  Audrey  sits  on  my  left!  but  she  does  not  waste  the 
sweets  of  her  conversation  upon  me ;  she,  her  sister,  Lord  Rexbor- 
ough and  Curly  make  a  very  lively,  not  to  say  noisy,  quartet.  The 


DIANA    CAREW.  183 

other  four  members  of  the  party  are  as  conspicuously  dull  and 
silent  I  am  not  a  big  enough  swell  to  make  my  host  put  out 
his  conversational  powers.  Miss  Puggins,  on  his  other  side,  does 
not  seem  very  talkative,  and  Captain  Montagu  devotes  himself 
to  his  dinner, 

I  have  remarked  that  whatever  disturbing  causes  may  affect  a 
man's  mind,  they  very  rarely  interfere  with  his  enjoyment  of 
dinner,  especially  if,  as  in  this  instance,  it  is  an  exceptionally 
good  one.  Such  is  not  the  case  with  a  woman,  I  suppose,  or,  at 
all  events,  with  a  girl.  I  have  naturally  a  most  healthy  appe- 
tite, but  under  the  influence  of  any  excitement  food  is  abhorrent 
to  me.  So  I  say,  "  No,  thank  you,"  to  almost  everything,  to  my 
host's  evident  disgust,  and  occupy  myself  by  watching  furtively 
my  opposite  neighbors. 

"  Really,  Miss  Carew,"  says  Mr.  Desborough,  out  of  all  patience 
at  last,  "  I  am  afraid  you  are  very  hard  to  please,  or  your  ap- 
petite is  a  wonderfully  small  one.  It  would  be  hardly  worth 
while  to  keep  a  two-hundred-guinea  chef  for  so  unappreciative  a 
lady." 

"  I  have  a  very  good  appetite,  thank  you,"  I  answer.  "  Every- 
thing looks  delicious,  but  at  home  I  am  only  accustomed  to  one 
or  two  dishes,  and  those  of  the  plainest  kind." 

He  stares  at  me  in  undisguised  astonishment.  He  evidently 
cannot  imagine  any  one  revealing  their  Own  shame  (poverty  is 
shame  to  him),  much  less  glorying  in  it.  For  somehow  I  do 
take  a  delight  in  making  the  worst  and  humblest  of  myself  be~ 
fore  him,  by  way  of  contrast  to  his  vulgar  assumption. 

"  Oh!"  he  says,  when  he  can  find  words;  "there  will  be  some 
mutton  presently,  I  dare  say.'' 

Meantime,  I  am  taking  an  inventory  of  Miss  Puggins'  charms. 
She  has  red  hair,  plain  red — not  auburn,  nor  burnished  gold, 
nor  mordore,  nor  the  subtle  sun-kissed  shade  dear  to  painters, 
but  red,  plain  red,  such  as  in  common  unvarnished  speech  is 
called  carroty.  And  her  complexion!  one  might  call  her  tallow- 
face  if  one  did  not  remember  that  Juliet's  father  once  said: 

"  Out  on  you,  tallow-face!" 

She  has  nothing  to  remind  one  of  Juliet,  except,  perhaps,  that 
her  Romeo  is  next  her,  and  my  eyes  flit  from  her  dull,  vacant 
face,  and  rest  lovingly  on  his.  Yes,  lovingly;  I  will  not  recall 
the  word;  however  low  he  may  have  fallen  in  my  esteem,  how- 
ever I  may  have  banished  him  from  his  throne  in  my  heart, 
nothing  can  detract  from  the  outward  beauty  of  his  face,  that 
makes  it  a  pleasure  (a  sad  enough  one,  Heaven  knows!)  only  to 
look  at  him.  And  Romeo's  name  was  Montagu,  I  think,  and  the 
conceit  pleases  me.  I  resume  my  contemplation  of  her  face, 
which  looks  uglier  by  contrast  with  the  beauty  of  his,  as  his  looks 
handsomer  from  its  proximity  to  the  plainness  of  hers.  She  has 
dull  blue  eyes,  a  short,  thick  nose,  a  mouth  rather  wide  and 
thin-lipped,  but  her  teeth — oh,  great  redeeming  point! — are  good. 
She  has  large  red  hands,  and  seems  to  know  it,  for  she  tries  to 
hide  them.  Now  and  then  Colonel  Montagu  talks  to  her.  It  is 
evidently  up-hill  work,  but  her  dull  face  brightens  up  with  pleas- 


184  DIANA    CAREW. 

ure,  and  she  takes  the  opportunity  to  glance  shyly  up  in  the  face 
that  she  evidently  finds  as  handsome  as  I  do.  Poor  girl!  I  feel 
no  spite  or  grudge  against  her;  indeed,  I  am  rather  sorry 
for  her  than  otherwise — she  is.  so  utterly  unattractive,  the 
most  jealous  woman  on  earth  could  not  suffer  one  pang  through 
her.  If  she  marries  him  ten  times  over,  I  shall  feel  no  jealousy 
of  her;  of  what  value  is  the  beautiful  case  when  the  jewels  are 
gone  from  it  ? 

It  is  a  dreary  ordeal  to  me,  this  long,  sumptuous,  costly  dinner; 
the  many  wax  lights,  the  heavy  odorous  flowers,  the  glittering 
gold  and  silver  plate,  the  shining  glass,  are  no  curious  feast  for 
my  eyes,  now  they  have  grown  accustomed  to  such  sights.  The 
loud,  merry  laughter  of  the  hostess  and  her  friends  jars  upon 
me.  Once  or  twice  they  try  to  draw  Colonel  Montagu  into  their 
gay  talk,  but  he  too  seems  somewhat  out  of  sorts  to-night,  and 
only  half  responds. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Charlie?"  roars  Lord  Rex- 
borough  across  the  table.  "  You're  as  dull  as  ditch-water.  Are 
you  uncomfortable  about  the  Leger,  or  are  you  meditating  upon 
the  heavy  responsibility  of  being  a  lieutenant- colonel  ?" 

"That's  it,"  answers  Colonel  Montagu,  looking  up  and  laugh- 
ing. "  I  am  trying  to  think  how  the  deuce  I  shall  spend  all  my 
leave." 

"  Oh,  go  and  look  on  at  them,  and  make  yourself  popular  by 
doing  other  fellows'  'guards,'  like  the 'bus-driver  on  a  holiday." 

"  That  might  be  a  good  plan,"  replies  the  other,  and  then  he 
returns  to  silence  and  his  dinner, 

Curly's  voice  is  loud,  his  face  is  flushed,  and  a  sudden  fear 
steals  over  me,  lest  he  should  be  drinking  more  than  is  good  for 
him.  I  begin  to  watch;  the  butler  is  going  round  constantly 
filling  the  guests'  glasses,  and  I  see  with  intense  anxiety  that 
Curly  never  refuses.  What  can  I  do?  A  feeling  of  positive 
agony  comes  over  me  as  I  reflect  how  impossible  it  would  be  for 
me  to  interfere  or  even  to  give  him  the  slightest  hint.  I  forget 
the  very  existence  of  the  people  who  have  so  utterly  occupied 
me  until  now,  and  strain  my  ears  painfully  to  catch  what  he  is 
saying.  He  is  talking  in  a  boasting,  swaggering  way,  oh,  so 
different  from  his  usual  tone  and  manner!  and  I  see  with  indig- 
nant pain  that  Lady  Gwyneth,  her  sister,  and  Lord  Rexborough 
are  leading  him  on,  and  exchanging  occasional  glances  of  amuse- 
ment. My  blood  begins  to  boil;  all  my  old  instinctive  dislike  to 
Lady  Gwyneth  surges  up  in  my  heart.  I  positively  hate  her. 
At  last — at  last  she  rises  from  the  table,  and  I  rise,  too,  trembling 
in  every  limb,  for  I  have  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  I  cross 
straight  over  to  him,  and  whisper  entreatingly:  "Dear  boy,  do 
come  with  us,  or,  if  you  stay,  pray  don't  drink  any  more."  " 

He  looks  at  me  with  an  angry  glance,  and  turns  away  without 
a  word,  and  I  am  obliged  to  follow  the  other  women. 

"  Lady  Gwyneth,"  I  say,  as  the  door  closes  upon  us,  "  may  I 
speak  to  you  a  moment  ?"  and  she  answers,  "  Certainly,"  with  a 
glance  of  chill  surprise  at  my  flushed,  excited  face.  The  trains 
of  the  other  two  are  disappearing  round  the  corner,  and  my 
hostess  and  I  are  standing  in  the  vast  hall,  under  one  of  the 


DIANA    CAREW.  185 

great  swinging  lamps,  whose  light  makes  every  expression  of 
our  faces  plainly  visible  to  each  other. 

"  My  brother  is  not  vised  to  drink  very  much  at  home,"  I 
\vhisper,  dashing  eagerly  into  my  subject:  "he  has  had,  I  fear, 
more  than  is  good  for  him  to-night,  and  papa  would  be  so  dread- 
fully vexed." 

"  Nonsense!"  she  answers,  with  a  light  laugh:  "  he  is  all  right 
enough.  You  can't  keep  him  tied  to  your  apron-string  forever. 
It  will  do  him  good  to  break  out  for  a  change." 

I  feel  bitterly  incensed  with  her  for  making  light  of  what 
seems  so  dreadfully  serious  to  me. 

"  That  is  not  our  idea,"  I  answer,  hotly.  "  Papa  would  never 
forgive  me  if  I  allowed  him  to — to  disgrace  himself." 

"  What  do  you  propose  doing,  then;1"  she  asks  me,  looking  at 
me  coldly.  "  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  to  disgrace  him  forever 
in  his  own  eyes  by  sending  the  butler  to  fetch  him  out  of  the 
room." 

"There  is  no  need  of  that,"  I  say,  hastily.  "If  you  would 
send  some  message  to  him,  he  would  come  at  once,  and  you 
could  make  an  excuse  to  prevent  his  going  back." 

"  I  will  be  no  party  to  it,"  she  replies,  moving  off.  "  You  are 
at  liberty  to  do  anything  you  like.  And  as  to  the  boy's  having 
had  too  much,  it  is  simply  your  own  imagination." 

And  Lady  Gwyneth  walks  away,  and  leaves  me  alone  under 
the  lamp  with,  if  my  face  is  as  great  an  index  to  my  mind  as 
people  pretend,  a  very  charming  and  amiable  expression  upon 
it.  I,  Diana  Carew,  who,  until  last  winter,  never  knew  the 
sensation  of  anger  or  hatred.  Perhaps  I  made  too  much  of  it. 
I  have  often  thought  so  since;  but  papa  and  I  were  so  proud  of 
our  boy,  that  to  see  him  do  anything  calculated  to  lower  him  in 
the  estimation  of  others,  would  be  the  cruelest  pain  to  us. 
When  I  join  the  other  women,  Lady  Gwyneth  and  her  sister  are 
talking  to  each  other  in  a  low  voice.  There  is  nothing  left  for  me 
but  to  address  myself  to  the  heiress,  and  to  count  with  agony  the 
long  minutes  until  the  rest  of  the  party  shall  join  us.  Half  an 
hour— half  an  eternity  it  seems  to  me — creeps  away,  and  then  I 
hear  with  no  relief,  alas!  Lord  Rexborough's  loud  laugh 
mingling  with  Curly's.  When  they  enter,  Curly  is  leaning  on 
the  other's  arm,  not  only  as  a  mark  of  familiar  affection,  but 
because,  I  see  in  an  agony  of  shame,  that  he  is  incapable  of.  sup- 
porting himself  alone.  His  fair  face  is  flushed,  his  utterance 
thick,  and  he  is  unmistakably  the  worse  for  drink.  Lord  Rex- 
borough  looks  delighted.  "  So,"  I  think,  with  the  exaggeration 
of  excited  feeling,  "  so  might  the  arch  fiend  triumph  at  the  de- 
struction of  a  human  soul."  From  the  experience  of  later 
years,  I  have  no  doubt  that  my  emotions  on  the  occasion  were 
excessive,  and  that  I  was  very  harsh  in  judging  so  angrily  the 
rest  of  the  party,  to  whom  the  fact  of  an  Eton  boy  taking  two 
or  three  more  glasses  of  wine  than  was  good  for  him  was  so 
venial,  not  to  say  natural,  an  offense,  that  they  look  upon  it 
only  with  amused  indulgence. 

Lord  Rexborough  has  piloted  him  to  a  sofa,  where  he  lolls 
with  an  abandon  that  he  would  never  dream  of  at  other  mo« 


186  DIANA    OAREW. 

ments,  for  there  is  no  better-mannered  young  fellow  in  the 
world  than  our  boy. 

"  Who's  for  a  round  game?"  cries  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"I  am,"  shouts  Curly;  "by  jingo,  yes,  let's  have  a  round 
game!  Where  are  the  cards  ?  Here,  let  me  help  you  get  them.'r 
And  he  tries  to  stagger  up. 

"Better  hold  on  to  the  sofa,  my  boy, "roars  Lord  Rexborough; 
and  Lady  Gwyneth — how  I  hate  her — joins  in  the  laugh.  Every 
one  takes  a  place  at  the  round  table  except  myself,  and,  although 
Lord  Rexborough  holds  out  the  inducement  of  being  my  partner 
and  of  instructing  me  in  the  mysteries  of  the  game,  I  resolutely 
decline.  I  have  no  heart  to  play,  even  if  it  were  not  for  the  de- 
terring thought  that  they  will  play  for  money,  which  I  cannot 
afford.  This  conjecture  is  correct.  I  take  a  book  and  pretend 
to  read;  in  reality  I  am  listening  and  watching  with  feverish 
anxiety.  Curly  is  evidently  not  in  a  state  to  attend  to  the  game; 
he  makes  frequent  mistakes,  and  is  utterly  reckless  in  his  play, 
and  I  can  see  that  he  is  losing  a  good  deal  more  than  he  can  af- 
ford. What  is  worse,  he  is  losing  his  temper,  and  has  already 
said  one  or  two  sharp,  rude  things.  My  cheeks  blush  for  him 
until  the  water  comes  into  my  eyes;  never  in  my  life  have  I  ex- 
perienced such  torture  before.  There  can  be  no  keener  pang 
than  witnessing  and  seeing  others  witness  the  degradation  of 
one  you  love  with  all  your  heart.  At  last  my  long  anguish  cul- 
minates. Curly  screams  oufr: 

"  You're  cheating,  Desborough.  I  swear  you're  cheating!  I 
saw  you,  by  George  I  did!" 

Mr.  Desborough  gets  up,  flinging  his  cards  on  the  table. 

"  Why  do  you  notice  him  ?"  says  Lady  Gwyneth.  "  Sit  down, 
don't  spoil  the  game." 

' '  I'm  not  going  to  play  with  a  drunken  young  fool  who  doesn't 
know  how  to  behave,"  her  husband  retorts. 

"  How  dare  you  call  me  names,"  shrieks  Curly,  springing  to 
his  feet.  "  You  little " 

But  before  he  can  litter  another  word  I  have  grasped  him  by 
the  arm  like  a  vise,  and  am  dragging  him  toward  the  door. 

"  Come  with  me  this  instant!"  I  say,  in  a  voice  of  such  low, 
concentrated  anger,  that  I  can  scarcely  believe  it  is  Diana 
Carew's;  then,  as  he  stares  stupidly  at  me  and  half  resists,  a 
hand  is  put  through  his  other  arm  and  we  lead  him  away  be- 
tween us. 

I  do  not  look  up  until  we  are  outside  the  door,  and  then  I  see 
that  it  is  Colonel  Montagu.  Curly  stumbles  up  one  or  two  stairs, 
then  leans  staggering  against  the  balustrades. 

"  Go  on  and  show  me  the  way,"  whispers  Colonel  Montagu; 
and,  as  I  obey,  he  takes  him  up  in  his  arms,  like  a  child,  and 
carries  him. 

I  did  not  think  this  languid  guardsman  was  so  strong.  My 
swift,  trembling  feet  precede  him,  and  he  lays  his  unresisting 
burden  on  the  bed. 

"  Now,"  he  whispers,  kindly,  "  go  away  for  a  little  while,  and 
I  will  put  him  to  bed.  Don't  look  distressed  "  (smiling):  "  I  have 


DIANA    CAREW.  187 

had  the  same  office  performed  for  me  dozens  of  times  when  I 
was  a  lad." 

And  he  begins  to  unfasten  Curly's  necktie  and  pull  off  his 
boots  as  gently  as  a  woman. 

I  go  as  he  bids  me,  blessing  him  a  thousand  times  in  my  heart, 
every  angry  thought  of  him  banished  utterly,  only  so  thankful 
to  set  my  idol  half  way  up  on  his  pinnacle  again.  I  wander  in  a 
desultory  way  about  the  corridor  until  he  comes  put. 

"  He  is  asleep  now,"  he  says.  "You  can  sit  with  him  a  little 
while,  if  you  like.  You  won't  care  to  come  down  again  to-night, 
I  dare  say.  Good-night "  (with  a  kind  pressure  of  the  hand). 
"Don't  think  anything  of  it;  no  one  else  will." 

Not  think  anything  of  it!  As  I  sit  listening  to  Curly's  uneasy, 
stertorous  breathing,  my  heart  is  torn  with  pain:  I  feel  as  "if 
some  dire  calamity  had  come  upon  pur  house.  A  horrible  vista 
stretches  put  before  me,  wherein,  with  all  the  reckless  exagger- 
ation of  inexperience,  I  see  Curly  going  irretrievably  to  per- 
dition, and  his  evil  angels,  in  the  shape  of  Lady  Gwyneth  and 
Lord  Rexborough,  hounding  him  on. 

I  am  roused  from  my  horrid  reverie  by  his  voice  calling  me. 

"  Oh,  my  head!  my  head!''  he  moans.     "  Oh,  Di,  I  feel  so  ill!'' 

It  is  hours  before  I  leave  him.  At  last  he  is  sleeping  quietly 
and  peacefully,  and.  heavy  at  heart,  I  go  to  my  own  room.  The 
lights  are  still  burning;  iii  the  distance  I  hear  voices  and  laugh- 
ter; the  party  has  evidently  not  yet  broken  up.  I  look  at  my 
watch:  it  wants  ten  minutes  to  two. 

I  go  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep  for  a  long  time.  One  thing,  I  feel, 
is  inevitable — that  we  leave  on  the  morrow.  I  shrink  from  it, 
because  it  involves  humiliation  to  my  darling  brother,  but  none 
the  less  I  feel,  for  his  own  sake,  for  the  duty  I  owe  to  him,  for 
my  sense  of  responsibility  to  papa,  it  must  be  done.  Then,  at 
last,  when  it  is  broad  daylight,  I  fall  into  a  heavy,  dreamless 
sleep,  out  of  which  I  am  awakened  by  a  knock  at  my  door.  It 
is  rather  loud  and  imperative,  as  though  it  were  not  the  first 
summons.  I  wake  en  sursaut,  as  the  French  happily  express  it, 
and  cry: 

"  Come  in." 

The  door  opens,  and  Curly  comes  in.  He  is  dressed,  but  h» 
looks  pale  and  not  himself.  In  a  moment  every  detail  of  last 
night's  scene  rushes  vividly  across  me.  He  comes  toward  me, 
and  then  suddenly,  before  I  can  utter  a  word,  he  has  flung  him- 
self on  his  knees  by  my  bedside  and  is  sobbing  his  heart  out. 
No  need  for  any  reproach  from  me.  I  might  have  known  how 
it  would  be  with  my  boy;  so  I  lay  loving  hands  on  his  drooped 
head,  loving  lips  on  his  golden  curls,  and  my  tears  rain  down  as 
swift  as  his,  and  my  heart  is  choked  with  sobs. 

"  Forgive  me,  darling  Di!"  he  says,  at  last,  in  a  smothered 
voice.  "  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  ever  forgive  myself.  How 
eeuld  I  be  such  a  beast  T 

How  can  I  heap  words  upon  my  boy's  bitter  self-reproach  ? 
—and  yet  how  can  I  defend  him?  So  I  am  silent. 

"  It  is  the  first  time,"  he  says,  tremulously,  "  and  it  shall  b« 


188  DIANA    CAREW. 

the  last,  I  swear,  Di.  Don't  say  a  word — I  know  what  you  must 
think;  but  I  will  make  up  for  it — you  shall  see." 

"  It  was  all  Lady  Gwyneth's  fault,"  I  cry,  hotly. 

"  No,  it  was  not,"  he  maintains,  stoutly;  "  it  was  my  own,  and 
no  one  else's.  But  I  will  beg  Desborough's  pardon,  and  if  ever 
they  catch  me  getting  drunk  again,  may  I—  may  I  feel  as  sorry 
and  ashamed  as  I  do  now!" 

And  so  all  thought  of  a  hasty  and  abrupt  departure  takes  wing, 
and  I  do  not  even  tell  Curly  what  I  had  intended. 

"  I'd  rather  not  go  down  with  you,"  he  says,  presently.  "  You 
won't  mind,  Di,  will  you  ?" 

Mind!  Would  I  not  gladly  bear  upon  my  head  all  the  brunt 
of  the  shame,  if  I  could  ?  I  put  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  an- 
swer him  by  a  kiss. 

I  have  slept  late,  and  when  we  go  down-stairs  every  one  is  al- 
ready there.  Curly  goes  straight  up  to  his  host,  his  fair  honest 
face  flushing,  and  says,  in  a  quivering  voice: 

"  Mr.  Desborough,  I  am  heartily  ashamed  of  my  behavior  last 
night,  and  I  beg  your  pardon  and  everybody  else's  a  thousand 
times." 

I  don't  know  how  any  one  else  feels,  but  my  eyes  are  blinded 
with  tears,  and  I  am  only  too  glad  to  drop  unnoticed  into  the 
first  chair. 

When  I  look  up  again,  every  one  is  talking  and  laughing  very 
gayly,  and,  thank  God!  if  I  suffered  shame  for  my  brother  last 
night,  I  can  feel  proud  of  him  again  this  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

CURLY  keeps  steadfastly  to  his  resolve— resists  all  temptation, 
and  drinks  only  with  the  greatest  moderation;  so  I  have  no  more 
uneasiness  on  that  score.  The  greater  part  of  the  first  day  I  spend 
alone;  the  other  ladies  all  go  with  the  shooting-party,  and  I  am 
left  to  my  own  devices.  They  invite  me,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
to  join  them,  and  I  would  gladly  go  for  the  sake  of  the  walk,  but 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  the  birds  shot. 

"  My  boudoir  is  at  your  disposal,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  as, 
booted  and  gaitered,  she  is  starting  on  the  morning  of  the  1st. 
"  You  will  like  it.  It  is  one  mass  of  velvet,  looking-glass,  and 
gimcracks.  I  never  use  it  myself;  it  is  kept  expressly  for  the 
lady-like  young  ladies  who  come  here.  The  room  I  live  in  I 
call  my  den;  but  it  is  not  at  all  in  your  style,  I  am  sure.  You'll 
find  lots  of  books  in  the  boudoir.  If  you  care  for  French 
novels — but  I  suppose  you  don't — all  the  newest  ones  are  in  my 
den.  Order  the  carriage  at  any  time  you  like.  I  hope  you'll  be 
amused." 

When  they  have  started,  I  betake  myself,  with  some  heaviness 
of  heart,  to  a  peregrination  round  the  house.  I,  who  am  nat- 
urally bright  and  joyous  and  glad  to  join  in  any  pleasure  and 
laughter,  feel  as  though  the  unenviable  role  of  wet  blanket  had 
been  thrust  upon  me;  I  am  the  obnoxious  goody  young  woman 
who  is  shocked  at  everybody  else,  and  whom  the  rest  of  the 


DIANA    CAREW.  189 

company  studiously  avoid.  I  knew  I  should  hate  this  visit,  and 
I  do — bitterly,  unspeakably.  Six  more  days,  long,  dragging, 
weary  days,  in  the  forced  company  of  the  man  whom  1  cannot 
look  at  without  pain  and  grief,  whom,  however  small  it  makes 
me  to  confess  it,  I  shall  always  care  for  more  than  any  other 
man.  I  have  carte-blanche  to  wander  where  I  choose,  and  I 
begin  with  the  old  part  of  the  house.  The  old  tapestry,  many  of 
the  family  portraits,  the  ancient  furniture,  is  left  as  in  the  days 
of  the  former  owner.  Nothing  can  be  more  stately,  more  digni- 
fied, in  more  refined  taste.  All  these  rooms  are  uninhabited 
now,  but  Lady  Gwyneth  has  sufficiently  good  taste  to  leave 
them  unaltered.  The  change  to  the  brand-new  decorations,  the 
garish  colors,  the  acres  of  plate-glass  and  looking-glass,  the  fan- 
tastic and  staring  monograms  wherever  they  can  be  crowded  in, 
the  rich,  bright-colored  carpets,  the  cart-loads  of  ormolu.  Pres- 
ently I  find  myself  in  Lad}7  Gwyneth's  "  den!"  It  is  much  more 
like  a  man's  room  than  a  woman's;  there  are  certainly  none  of 
the  elegancies  that  you  expect  to  see  in  the  living-room  of  a 
woman  of  birth  and  unbounded  riches.  A  plain,  small-patterned 
paper,  chintz  curtains  and  coverings  to  three  or  four  easy-chairs. 
a  fine  array  of  whips,  driving  and  riding,  a  trophy  of  foxes' 
brushes,  gloves,  cigar-cases,  periodicals,  a  dozen  or  so  French 
novels  in  paper  covers  littered  on  the  table,  an  album  of  photo- 
graphs, which  I  close  as  soon  as  I  have  opened  it.  On  the  wall, 
pictures  of  many  Derby  winners,  and  several  hunting  sketches; 
on  the  chimney-piece,  photographs  in  stands  of  a  few  men  and 
many  dogs.  Lord  Rexborough  appears  twice  among  the  former. 
There  is  no  piano,  no  work-basket,  not  a  single  vase  for  flowers 
— indeed,  not  one  object  that  would  reveal  the  sex  of  the  usual 
occupier.  There  is  nothing  to  tempt  me  to  linger,  for  the  view 
from  the  window  is,  very  characteristically,  into  the  stable- 
yard. 

I  feel  a  slight  curiosity  to  see  the  despised  boudoir,  and  turn, 
my  steps  in  that  direction.  I  open  the  door  and  pause  upon  the 
threshold.  Certainly  it  is  a  triumph  of  upholstery;  but  it  looks 
cold  and  formal,  as  a  room  does  that  is  never  lived  in.  The  walls 
are  of  faint,  creamy  pink,  the  cornice  picked  out  with  silver;  the 
furniture  is  all  ebony  and  silver,  the  curtains  and  couches  of  blue 
velvet  and  satin,  the'oval  mirrors  framed  in  silver,  and  there  is  a 
profusion  of  Sevres  and  Dresden  china,  of  brackets  and  lace, 
statuettes,  exquisitely-painted  china  plaques,  and  every  kind  of 
"  gimcrack,"  as  Lady  Gwyneth  expresses  it.  I  draw  aside  the 
filmy  lace  curtains,  fine  as  a  spider's  web,  and  look  out  over  the 
blazing  parterres  down  the  green  slopes  to  the  cool,  still  water, 
and  the  dark  background  of  trees  beyond.  It  would  be  a  charm- 
rning  room  if  it  were  only  lived  in;  but  now  everything  is  stiff 
and  formal,  arranged  in  the  housemaid's  taste,  each  chair  equi- 
distant from  the  other,  so  that  one  cannot  even  sit  down  with- 
ont  feeling  guilty  of  having  disturbed  the  methodical  precision 
of  the  place. 

Thence  I  wander  into  the  gardens,  which  are  most  lovely,  and 
somehow  manage  to  crawl  through  the  dull  morning.  It  is 
nearly  lunch-time,  and  I  am  thinking  with  unspeakable  horror 


190      •  DIANA    CAREW. 

that  I  shall  have  to  sit  down  alone  to  lunch  under  the  Argus  eyes 
of  the  solemn  butler  and  his  gorgeous  satellites,  when,  to  my  in- 
tense relief,  appears  the  heiress,  hot,  tired,  discontented.  I  greet 
her  with  a  more  hearty  welcome  than  I  could  have  imagined 
possible. 

"  What!  back  already  ?"  I  say,  with  lively  interest.  "  Are  you 
tired  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  in  not  the  most  amiable  tone.  "  And  so 
would  you  be,  if  you  had  had  three  hours  of  trudging  through 
BtubbJe-fields  and  turnips,  to  say  nothing  of  having  been  dread- 
fully bitten." 

"  Bitten!"  I  echo,  in  horror,  only  thinking  of  the  dogs. 

"  I  can  never  go  into  a  corn-field  this  time  of  year,  without 
being  worried  to  death,"  she  returns,  crossly;  and  then  I  realize 
the  nature  of  the  casualties.  "  Those  two,"  she  proceeds,  "  are 
more  like  men  than  women;  nothing  ever  tires  them.  It  is  very 
unladylike,  I  think,  to  be  always  running  everywhere  after  the 
men." 

Poor  heiress!  she  forgets  that  her  aspirations  were  the  same, 
though  her  powers  inferior. 

"  They  won't  get  me  out  again!"  she  continues,  still  a  victim 
to  irritation.  "I  should  not  have  gone  this  morning,  only" 
(stammering  a  little  over  the  fiction)  "  Colonel  Montagu  over- 
persuaded  me." 

The  over-persuasion  was  couched  in  these  terms:  "  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you  have  an  adventurous  spirit,  too  ?  I'm  afraid 
you'll  very  soon  be  used  up  if  you  are  not  accustomed  to  it." 

Lunch  revives  her  spirits,  and  she  becomes  quite  garrulous. 

"  What  shall  we  do  all  the  afternoon  ?"  she  says.  "  We  must 
drive,  I  think.  My  cousin  has  lots  of  horses  and  carriages  in  the 
stable  doing  nothing;  we  may  as  well  have  one  out."  And  I 
concur. 

"  Let's  go  into  the  garden,"  she  suggests  next,  and  leads  the 
way  to  a  seat  sheltered  from  the  sun's  rays  by  the  branches  of 
an  elm. 

"  Have  you  ever  met  Colonel  Montagu  before  ?"  she  inquires  of 
me,  when  we  are  seated. 
Yes,"  I  answer,  briefly. 

Is  he  not  handsome  ?"  she  proceeds,  with  enthusiasm. 
Yes." 

But  wonderfully,  out  of  the  way  handsome!"  she  persists. 
1  Have  you  ever  seen  a  handsomer  man?" 
No." 

'  But  you  don't  say  it  as  if  you  meant  it;  indeed,  I  think  you 
only  say  it  to  please  me — I  mean  "  (reddening  consciously)  "  for 
the  sake  of  agreeing  with  me." 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  answer,  quietly.  "  I  think  Colonel  Montagu 
quite  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw.  But  why  should  I  say  so 
to  please  you?"  (looking  at  her  coldlv,  and  feeling  my  voice 
harden  in  involuntary  contempt).  ' '  fs  he  anything  particular 
to  you  ?  Are  you  going  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  Well,  no,"  she  stammers,  with  bashful  confusion;  "not  ex- 
actly that,  What  a  downright  point-blank  question!  Why " 


DIAXA.     CAREIV.  191 

(eagerly),  "  have  you   heard  anything  about  it?    Has  he  men- 
tioned me  to  you  at  all  ?" 

"  I  think  he  told  me  that  you  were  staying  here,"  I  answer. 

"  He  was  asked  here  to  meet  me,"  she  says,  looking  pleased  (I 
don't  quite  know  at  what).  "  I  met  him  two  or  three  times  in 
town  last  winter,  and  he  said  he  hoped  to  meet  me  again,  so  my 
cousin  asked  him  here.  He  is  so  delightful,  so  amusing,  has 
such  a  perfect  way  of  saying  pretty  things  to  one:  has  he  not?" 

"  Very,"  I  make  answer,  a  grim  sense  of  the  humor  of  the 
thing  stealing  over  me. 

"  I  may  be  wrong,'1  remarks  Miss  Puggins,  regarding  me  curi- 
ously, "  but  I  have  a  sort  of  idea  that  there  is  not  a  great  deal  of 
love'lost  between  you  two." 

"Yes?"  I  say,  biting  my  lips.     "What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Well,  you  know"  (with  charming  frankness),  "last  night 
after  you  left  the  room,  we  had  a  long  talk  on  the  sofa  together. 
Lord  Rexborough  and  Gwyneth  were  playing  ecarte,  and  I  tried 
to  draw  him  out  about  you,  and  he  answered  just  in  the  same 
short  sort  of  way  that  you  did  about  him  just  now." 

••  Ah!'7  1  say,  unable  to  be  anything  more  than  monosyllabic. 
'  You  are  neighbors,  too,  are  you  not?"  she  continues.  "Is 
not  Alford  a  lovely  place  ?  I  am  dying  to  see  it.  And  his  old 
mother,  too,  is  so  nice,  I  hear..  What  is  .Sir  Hector  like  ?  Very 
cold  and  reserved,  is  he  not  ?  So  different  from  his  brother,  I 
am  told." 

I  want  to  be  good-natured,  but  her  vulgarity  and  curiosity 
seem  to  shut  up  my  conversational  powers  completely.  She 
does  not  appear  to  observe  how  small  a  part  I  play  in  the  dia- 
logue, but  rattles  on. 

"  How  do  you  like  Lord  Rexborough?  He  is  handsome,  is  he 
not  ?  But  I  think  the  way  Gwyneth  goes  on  with  him  is  too  bad; 
don't  you?  If  I  were  Harold  I  should  not  like  it  at  all.  I  believe 
they  were  in  love  with  each  other  before  she  married,  but  he 
was  only  Colonel  Blount  then,  and  never  expected  to  be  Lord  Rex- 
borough, but  his  uncle  and  cousin  were  drowned  out  yachting 
the  very  day  of  her  wedding.  Wasn't  it  funny  ';  I  rather  won- 
der Harold  cares  to  have  him  here,  but  he  doesn't  seem  to  rnind 
—he  is  so  deadfully  fond  of  a  lord.  My  papa  is  always  laughing 
at  him.  He  hasn't  any  ridiculous  ideas  like  poor  uncle,  and  they 
quite  quarreled  at  one  time  because  papa  wouldn't  change  his 
name  to  Desborough.  I  wish  he  had,  you  know  "  (frankly),  "be- 
cause Puggins  is  such  a  horrid  name,  isn't  it  ?  Only  that,  being 
a  woman,  of  course  "  (looking  conscious),  "  I  can  change  it.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  I  have  such  a  horrid  Christian  name — Sarah;  and 
papa  makes  me  so  wild — he  inll  call  me  Sally.'' 

Here  her  confidences  are  postponed  pro  tent,  by  the  announce- 
ment that  the  carriage  is  at  the  door. 

On  our  return  we  find  the  shooting-party  have  come  in  before 
us. 

"Such  a  day  we've  had!"  Curly  tells  me.  "Bagged  fifty 
brace.  Charlie  Montagu  shot  twenty  out  of  them.  I  always 
thought  those  leo^uid  airs  of  his  were  put  on;  he  walked  and 
shot  oetter  than  ?  ny  of  iw.  Ri*bor ough  got  fifteen  brace,  1 


192  DIANA    CAREW. 

got  eight;  but  then  I  lent  my  gun  part  of  the  time  to  Lady 
Audrey;  she  and  Lady  Gwyn  shot  seven  brace  between  them,  and 
Desborough  one.  I  never  saw  a  fellow  rnuff  it  so.  He  missed 
forty  birds  if  he  did  one.  The  heiress  very  soon  sloped,  and 
jolly  glad  we  all  were  when  she  did,  she  would  keep  chattering 
so.  Isn't  she  sweet  on  Charlie  ?  He's  only  got  to  ask  and  have 
there,  it's  very  plain.  Now  we  are  going  out  riding,  we  four. 
Charlie  is  going  to  stop  at  home  to  spoon  the  heiress;  and  you, 
poor  Di!  I  don't  know  what  you're  going  to  do.  Why  didn't 
you  bring  a  habit?" 

"  You  know  I  haven't  a  decent  one,"  I  answer,  regretfully. 

<(  What  a  bore!    Well,  good-bye!    I  wish  you  were  coming," 

"  Do,  pray,  be  careful!"  I  cry  after  him,  and,  not  content  with 
my  caution,  I  follow  to  see  him  mount. 

The  riding  party  are  out  on  the  steps,  and  the  non -riding  party 
are  seeing  them  off.  Certainly  the  saddle  is  the  most  advan- 
tageous position  for  Lady  Gwyneth  and  her  sister:  both  have 
perfect  figures,  perfectly  habited,  graceful  seats,  and  unbounded 
confidence.  Lady  Gwyneth  is  going  to  ride  the  chestnut,  which 
objects  violently  to  be  mounted,  and  indulges  in  a  series  of 
back-jumps  and  capers  after  she  is  on  his  back  that  send  my 
heart  into  my  mouth.  She  only  laughs  and  seems  to  enjoy  it. 

"  Your  turn  to-morrow,  Curly,"  she  cries,  laughing,  and  I  vow 
to  myself  that,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  he  shall  not  ride  the  brute. 
All  the  horses  seem  mettlesome,  and  it  is  with  anything  but  a 
comfortable  sensation  that  I  watch  them  prancing  and  clatter- 
ing down  the  drive. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  hot-houses?"  Mr.  Desborough  asks  me,  as 
we  are  left  standing  together  in  the  doorway.  "  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  look  round."  And  I  assent,  and  walk  away  with 
him. 

"Won't  you  come  too,  Colonel  Montagu  ?"  asks  the  heiress; 
and  he  complies  languidly. 

Mr.  Desborough  hurries  me  on  until  we  are  well  in  advance  of 
the  other  couple. 

"We  mustn't  spoil  sport,  you  know,"  he  says,  in  a  meaning 
way  that  does  not  tend  to  increase  my  love  for  him. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  assent,  wondering  if  the  scorn  I  feel  is  curl- 
ing my  lip.  * 

"  He'll  be  a  lucky  fellow,  if  he  gets  her"  (with  a  backward 
glance).  As  I  am  unable  to  make  a  civil  answer,  I  make  none, 
but  fall  to  admiring  the  orchids.  When  we  have  gone  the 
round  of  the  houses,  whose  contents  I  am  able  to  praise  and 
admire  with  great  sincerity,  we  come  upon  the  other  pair  sitting 
together  under  a  tree. 

"  I  thought  they  would  not  follow  us  far,"  says  my  host,  with 
a  knowing  smile. 

If  anything,  the  time  goes  more  slowly  here  than  at  home. 
People  say  time  is  so  short;  and  yet  there  are  sixty  seconds  in  a 
minute,  sixty  minutes  in  an  hour,  twelve  hours  in  a  day— or 
rather  fifteen  from  rising  to  going  to  bed.  And,  if  one's  heart  is 
aching  all  the  while,  Heaven  knows  that  tittle  of  time,  a  day, 
seems  long  enough. 


DIANA    CAREW.  193 

The  same  party  at  dinner,  arranged  in  the  same  manner:  but 
to-night  I  have  no  cause  for  anxiety  on  Curly's  account.  He  is 
merry,  but  not  loud,  and  drinks  most  sparingly.  I  listen  to  my 
host's  platitudes,  I  contemplate  the  heiress'  charms,  or  want  of 
them,  I  steal  furtive  glances  at  Colonel  Montagu.  They  need  not 
be  furtive;  he  is  not  likely  to  intercept  one  of  them,  for  all 
dinner-time  he  never  once  looks  in  my  direction.  He  is  more 
cheerful  to-night,  and  talks  to  every  one  but  me.  My  heart 
throbs  indignantly;  my  thoughts  go  back  to  that  night,  barely 
four  little  months  ago.  when  in  the  wood  at  Alford  he  professed 
himself  ready  and  willing  to  sacrifice  the  future  for  love  of  me. 

Dinner  comes  to  an  end;  again  I  follow  the  other  trains  to  the 
drawing-room,  again  I  have  a  request,  almost  a  prayer,  to  make 
to  my  hostess.  This  time  it  is  that  she  will  not  let  Curly  ride  the 
chestnut. 

"  I  know  he  rides  very  well,"  I  say  eagerly;  "  he  has  great 
pluck  and  a.  very  good  seat;  but,  after  all,  he  has  not  had  much 

practice,  and  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  him,  I '  I  stop 

short,  unable  to  dwell  upon  such  a  horrible  possibility.  Lady 
Gwyneth  laughs  me  to  scorn.  I  might  have  guessed  as  much. 
"  Poor  fellow!"  she  utters  contemptuously;  "it  is  a  wonder  he 
has  a  bit  of  nerve  at  all,  if  he  is  always  being  watched,  and 
warned,  and  cautioned.  Something  will  happen  to  him,  prob- 
ably, one  of  these  days;  it  always  does  to  people  who  are  coddled 
up  and  taken  such  extra  care  of." 

I  choke  down  my  anger  as  best  I  may,  but  my  dislike  of  Lady 
Gwyneth  is  growing  deeply  and  rapidly.  No  power  on  earth 
shall  ever  induce  me  to  come  under  her  roof  again. 

When  the  rest  of  the  party  join  us,  Lord  Rexborough  draws  a 
low  chair  and  sits  down  deliberately  beside  me. 

"All  right  to-night,  you  see,"  he  whispers,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  Curly.  "  What  a  lucky  fellow  he  is  to 
have  such  a  good  little  sister  to  keep  him  straight!" 

I  dislike  this  man  intensely,  and  I  am  in  a  bitter  humor.  I 
would  rather  offend  him  than  not;  little  care  have  I  of  displeas- 
ing my  hostess  as  I  had  at  Warrington. 

"  It  "is  very  kind  and  considerate  of  you  to  allude  to  what  must 
naturally  be  such  a  pleasant  subject,"  I  say,  fiercely. 

"Oh,  hang  it!  I  did  not  not  mean  to  annoy  you;  you  need 
not  take  one  up  so  very  short.  No  one  thinks  an  iota  worse  of 
a  boy  for  taking  a  little  too  much  once  in  a  way." 

"  Some  people  think  all  the  better  of  him.  I  dare  say."  I  retort, 
scornfully—"  would,  perhaps,  aid  and  abet  him — would  be  rather 
glad  to  help  him  sink  down  to  their  own  level." 

My  adversary  only  looked  amused. 

"  By  Jove!"  he  says,  with  a  laugh,  "  that  was  a  nasty  one  for 
me! — of  course  you  meant  it  for  me." 

I  am  silent. 

"  Charlie  is  making  the  running  with  the  heiress,  eh?"  he  goes 
on,  after  a  slight  pause.  "  You  know  I  used  to  think  you  were 
rather  sweet  there  last  winter,  and  I'm  very  glad  to  see  it  hasn't 
come  to  anything.  Serious  intentions  don't  do  for  people  who 
are  both  in  the  same  boat — '  face  is  their  fortune ' — eh  ?" 


194  DIANA    CAREW. 

If  it  did  not  happen  that  at  this  juncture  Lady  Gwyneth  sum- 
mons us  to  a  round  game,  I  should  certainly  rush  away  and 
leave  him  master  of  the  field,  so  utterly  am  I  repelled  and  dis- 
gusted by  his  coarseness.  Lady  Gwyneth  evidently  does  not 
share  my  feeling  for  him.  I  might  not  have  noticed  anything, 
perhaps,  had  Miss  Puggins  not  suggested  it;  but  now,  having  the 
cue,  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  see  that  her  manner  to  him  is  differ- 
ent from  what  it  is  to  any  one  else. 

"  I  don't  want  to  play  to-night,"  he  answers  her.  "  I  am 
going  to  have  a  chat  with  Miss  Carew;  we  are  old  friends,  you 
know  "  (laughing). 

"  Come,"  she  says,  persuasively,  in  a  tone  so  far  softer  than 
her  usual  one  that  I  look  involuntary  to  see  if  Mr.  Desborough  is 
near;  "do  come;  we  are  going  to  play  to-night.  Miss  Carew, 
you  must  join  us,  and  it  shall  be  all  for  love." 

"  I  could  not  afford  to  lose  any  more  of  Miss  Carew's  love  than 
I  have  done  already,"  he  answers,  with  a  laugh;  and  then  he 
rises  and  gives  himself  a  shake,  like  a  great  bear,  and  proceeds 
to  the  table.  We  all  play,  and  the  game  is  harmonious  enough, 
excepting  for  a  passage  of  arms  between  Lady  Gwyneth  and  her 
lord.  Although  we  are  not  playing  for  money,  she  is  betting 
what  seems  to  me  very  heavily  on  the  game. 

•  Like  my  luck!"  she  says,  crossly,  at  last,  to  Colonel  Montagu. 

"  That's  fifty  I  owe  you  with  last  night.  I  ought  to  have  paid 
up  this  morning,  but  I  could  not  get  the  money  out  of  my  gen- 
erous proprietor." 

"  I  have  told  you  over  and  over  again,  Lady  Gwyneth,"  re- 
sponds Mr.  Desborough,  with  angry  pompousness,  "  that  I  will 
not  pay  your  gambling  debts:  no  fortune  could  stand  against 
it." 

"  Won't  you  ?"  she  says,  scornfully.  "  Then  "  (turning  to  Lord 
Rexborough)  "I  shall  have  to  come  to  you,  Jack.  You  would 
have  paid  them  all  without  a  murmur,  would  you  not,  if  your 
uncle  and  cousin  had  only  gone  to  the  bottom  one  little  day 
sooner?" 

I  feel  literally  petrified  by  this  daring  speech.  I  look  up,  half 
expecting  some  dreadful  finale,  but  beyond  a  scowl  and  a  dark, 
ugly  flush,  the  husband  takes  no  notice.  Lord  Rexborough  is 
deep  in  the  study  of  his  cards.  Colonel  Montagu,  with  quick 
tact,  makes  a  diversion,  and  we  all  go  on  playing  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

This,  I  reflect  to  myself,  is  one  of  the  fruits  of  marriage  with- 
out  love. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

THERE  is  no  shooting  the  next  day.  We  all  go  for  a  picnic  ij  t 
a  ruined  abbey  ten  miles  distant.  The  day  gives  me  nothing  to 
chronicle — only  more  dull  heart-weariness — and  I  am  glad,  ay, 
very  glad,  when  it  is  gathered  to  all  the  days  that  have  gone  to* 


DIANA    CAREW.  195 

fore  it.  Colonel  Montagu  and  the  heiress  are  left  together  in  a 
marked  manner;  they  are  glanced  at  laughingly  and  spoken  of 
aside  as  "  a  oase."  Curly,  poor  boy,  little  dreaming  all  the  stabs 
he  is  inflicting  upon  me,  takes  especial  delight  in  chronicling  its 
progress  and  speculating  upon  how  soon  it  will  come  to  a  crisis. 
I  am  not  jealous  of  her — that  would  be  impossible;  but  no 
woman  who  loves  a  man  can  see  his  attentions  given  to  another, 
however  grudgingly  or  with  however  mercenary  intent,  and  not 
suffer  bitter  pain.  He  rides  the  chestnut  to  the  picnic.  Lady 
Gwyneth  laughingly  dares  him  to  it,  and  he  accepts  the  chal- 
lenge without  hesitation. 

"  After  all,"  she  says  to  him,  as  we  are  picnicking  among  the 
ruins,  "  you  are  no  roi  faineant,  as  your  devoted  admirer,  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,  pretended.  You  shot  splendidly  yesterday,  and  I 
could  not  have  managed  the  chestnut  better  myself  than  you  did 
this  morning." 

A  flush  of  pleasure  creeps  over  me  at  her  praise.  I  love  to 
think  he  is  less  indolent  and  languid  than  he  tries  to  appear.  At 
this  moment  my  eyes  fall  on  the  heiress,  who  is  gazing  at  him 
with  a  proud  expression  of  proprietorship,  and  a  feeling  of  sick- 
ening disgust  comes  over  me. 

The  next  day  they  shoot  again.  Mr.  Desborough  does  not  go 
with  the  rest  of  the  party,  but  volunteers  to  drive  me  out,  and  I 
accept.  I  may  as  well  do  that  as  anything  else.  That  evening 
Lady  Gwyneth  asks  me  for  the  first  time  to  sing.  I  open  the 
piano,  and  am  half  way  through  the  second  song,  when  the 
door  opens,  and  Colonel  Montagu  comes  in,  followed  by  the 
others.  He  does  not  seat  himself  beside  the  heiress,  although 
she  moves  her  dress  invitingly,  but  walks  to  the  embrasured 
window  and  stands  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain.  His  face  is 
turned  toward  me,  but  I  cannot  tell  if  he  is  looking  at  me.  I 
know  not  what  impulse  seizes  me,  but  I  leave  the  song  I  am 
singing  unfinished,  and  break  into  one  that  must  surely  stab 
him  to  the  heart,  if  he  has  one.  Ay,  if  he  has!  My  whole  soul 
goes  out  into  the  last  verse;  there  are  tears  in  my  voice,  in  my 
eyes,  in  my  heart,  as  I  sing  it: 

"Ah!  but  the  days  brought  changes  after, 

Clouds  in  the  happy  skies, 
Care  on  the  lips  that  curved  with  laughter, 

Tears  in  the  radiant  eyes. 
Parted  asunder,  worn  with  grieving, 

Wearily  each  one  prays, 
Ah!  for  the  days  beyond  retrieving, 

Ah!  for  the  g'oldeu  days!" 

And  when  I  have  sung  the  last  note,  lest  I  should  betray  my* 
self,  I  rise,  and,  before  any  one  has  time  to  speak,  am  out 
through  the  conservatory,  rushing  with  swift  feet  down  the 
green  slopes  to  the  water.  It  is  a  glorious  night,  just  such  a 
night  as  that  one  the  memory  of  which  brought  all  my  heart 
into  my  voice.  The  deep-colored  moon  is  coming  up  over  the 
stately  trees. 


196  DIANA     CAREW. 

"  A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flushed  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold  green, 

And  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond  plots 
Of  dark  and  bright." 

I  stand  and  look  down  into  the  shimmering  water,  bitter  and 
miserable  at  heart,  half  wishing  I  could  fling  myself  down  into 
its  deeps,  and  let  the  smooth  water  flow  together  again  over  me. 
A  footfall  sounds  behind  me,  and  the  swift  blood  rushes  to  my 
brow  and  neck.  He  has  come  after  me:  perhaps  he  still  cares  for 
me;  perhaps 

I  do  not  move  or  turn  until  a  hand  is  laid  upon  my  arm,  and 
then  I  look  up,  and  with  a  sudden  horrible  revulsion  of  feeling, 
meet  the  eyes  of  Lord  Rexborough. 

"  So,"  he  says,  looking  at  me  intently,  "  it  is  not  all  over 
between  you  and  Charlie  ?" 

For  answer  I  turn  to  fly  from  him ;  but  he  catches  me  by  the 
arm  and  detains  me. 

"  Stop,"  he  says,  "  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry."  . 

"  How  dare  you?"  I  cry,  passionately,  struggling  in  his  grasp 
as  a  mouse  might  struggle  in  a  cat's  mouth.  4i  Let  me  go!" 

''Don't  hurt  yourself,"  he  says,  looking  amused;  "I  am 
awfully  strong,  you  know,  and  I  don't  intend  to  let  you  go,  until 
I  have  had  a  little  talk  with  you;  unless  you  scream,  of  course, 
and  make  a  scene — which  you  won't,  unless  I  am  very  much 
mistaken  in  you." 

"It  is  a  fine  use  to  make  of  your  strength,  is  it  not,"  1 
cry,  tauntingly,  "to  detain  a  woman  against  her  will  by  brute 
force?" 

"  Come  quietly,  then,"  he  says.  "  There!"  pointing  to  a  seat 
close  by;  "I  don't  want  you  to  go  any  further  than  that.  I  am 
not  going  to  use  my  brute  force"  (laughing)  "  to  carry  you  off. 
I  am  only  going  to  ask  you  a  question." 

His  hateful  grasp  is  still  upon  my  arm;  it  is  undignified  as 
well  as  useless  to  struggle  with  him,  and  he  is  right  in  supposing 
that  I  am  not  likely  to  cry  out  or  make  a  scene. 

"  Leave  go  my  arm,  then,"  I  say,  with  suppressed  anger. 

He  obeys. 

I  walk  to  the  seat  under  the  trees  and  sit  down. 

"  Now,"  I  inquire,  in  the  most  aggressively  uninviting  tone  I 
can  command,  "  what  do  you  want?" 

He  kneels  with  one  knee  on  the  seat,  not  so  close  as  is  his; 
disgusting  wont,  but  at  a  respectful  distance. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  he  sajTs,  speaking  in  rather  a  less  familiar 
and  offensive  way  than  usual,  "  why  you  hate  me  so.  I  believe/ 
you  look  upon  me  as  only  one  remove  from  the  devil." 

"  You  are  rather  like  the  picture  of  Apollyon  in  my  old  '  Pil- 
grim's Progress '  at  home,"  I  answer,  without  hesitation.  "  I  de- 
test him.  I  would  say  anything  to  rid  myself  forever  of  his 
hateful  importunities,  and,  though  I  think  him  quite  capable  of 
strangling  me  and  thiowing  me  into  the  lake,  I  am  so  sick  and 


DIANA    CAREW.  197 

weary  and  disgusted  with  everything  I  have  no  room  for  bodily 
fear. 

"  It's  not  because  I'm  like  the  devil  that  you  hate  me,"  he 
says,  thoughtfully :  that's  never  any  great  drawback  to  a  man 
in  a  woman's  eye — particularly  a  good  woman.  Besides,  you 
don't  know  whether  I  am  good  or  bad ;  how  should  you  ?  As 
far  as  that  goes,  Charlie's  quite  as  loose  a  fish  as  I  am,  and  you 
don't  hate  him.  Then,  of  course,  I  haven't  his  soft,  spooney 
ways;  that  takes  all  you  women  so  tremendously.  I've  led  a 
roughish  life:  it's  always  been  more  in  my  line  to  court  hardship 
and  danger,  than  to  loiter  away  my  time  in  women's  boudoirs. 
But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  why  you  hate  me." 

"Why?"  I  reply,  with  a  vindictive  coolness.  "I  hardly 
know.  It  does  not  seem  worth  while  thinking  about;  but  all 
the  same,  I  do  hate  you,  and,  as  you  seem  to  know  it,  I  think  it 
would  be  more  gentlemanlike  of  you  to  leave  me,  and  not  annoy 
me  with  your  company." 

"  By  Jovel  you're  a  cool  hand!"  he  says,  looking  at  me  with 
quite  an  admiring  expression.  "  Are  you  not  afraid  of  saying 
such  things  to  me  ?  You  don't  seem  to  reflect  that  I  could  drop 
you  into  the  water  and  drown  you  in  half  a  minute." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  return  coolly,  "  I  have  thought  of  that,  and  it 
struck  me  as  very  probable  you  might;  but  I  do  not  mind:  you 
are  very  welcome:  I  have  had  about  as  much  of  life  as  I  care 
for." 

"  Poor  little  girl!"  he  utters,  in  a  pitying  tone,  that  jars  hor- 
ribly upon  me.  "  And  so,"  he  continues,  after  a  somewhat  long 
pause,  ''you  really  hate  me?  Well,  things  don't  often  conquer 
me,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  you  shall  like  me  before 
you  have  done." 

"Have  you?"  I  say,  scornfully.  "I  dare  say  you  are  quite 
equal  to  any  of  Hercules'  tasks,  but  I  think  you  will  find  that  a 
little  beyond  you." 

"  You  are  very  truthful  and  outspoken,  at  all  events,"  he 
answers.  "  Yes,  and  you  are  very  pretty  and  very  plucky  too, 
and,  although  you  do  snub  me  so  smartly,  I  like  you  all  the 
same.  If  you  were  only  civil  to  me"  (laughing),  "I  believe 
I  should  like  you  a  devilish  deal  too  well  Jfor  my  own  peace 
of  mind.  I  don't  believe  very  much  in  women  as  a  rule, 
but  I  do  in  you.  Perhaps  it's  because  you  are  the  first  woman 
who  has  snubbed  me — since  I  came  into  my  title.  I  dare  say 
you  think  it's  swagger,  but  I  give  you  my  word  there  are 
precious  few  women  who  wouldn't  run  into  my  arms  if  I  opened 
them — and  asked  them  to  be  Lady  Eexbprough,"  he  adds, 
with  a  grim  smile.  "  I  don't  suppose  you  would  "  (sitting  down 
beside  me,  but  still  at  a  respectful  distance,  and  eying  me  curi- 
ously). 

"  That  I  would  not!"  I  answer,  heartily.  "  Not  if  you  were 
ten  times  Lord  Rexborough  and  had  a  million  a  year." 

"  You  are  a  strange  little  girl,"  he  says.  "  I  don't  suppose  you 
would.  Certainly,  if  you  could  refuse  Seldon,  who  will  be  a 
duke,  and  is  a  nice,  good-looking  young  fellow  into  the  bargain, 
I  don't  suppose  I  should  stand  much  chance." 


198  DIANA    CAREW. 

The  moon  is  mounting  higher  in  the  heavens. 
"  Dark  blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  underflame." 

There  is  no  great  inducement  to  me  to  stay  out  with  this  man, 
whose  presence  is  odious  to  me,  except  that  the  night  is  so  ex- 
ceeding fair,  and  that  I  shrink  from  returning  to  the  drawing- 
room  after  my  sudden  flight. 

"Have  you  done  with  me  now?"  I  say,  making  as  if  to 
rise. 

"  Do  not  go,"  he  entreats.  "  Stop  with  me  a  few  minutes' 
longer,  of  your  own  free  will,  won't  you  ?  I  will  not  force  you 
this  time." 

His  tone  is  so  much  softer  than  usual  that  I  comply. 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  your  thinking  me  a  rough  brute,"  he  says, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  quite  conscious  of  it  myself;  but  women 
never  seem  to  take  offense :  I  should  think  a  great  deal  better  of 
them  if  they  did.  I've  not  had  much  of  a  chance,1'  he  continues, 
looking  away  from  me,  "though,  Heaven  knows,  I  have  often 
wished  to  be  better.  You  see,  if  a  man  is  dragged  up  anyhow, 
without  the  influence  even  of  any  passably  good  woman,  he  gets 
rather  rough  notions  about  the  sex:  and  if,  as  was  my  case,  he 
has  a  mother  who  is  ten  times  worse  than  none  "  (his  voice  get- 
ting low  and  husky),  "  it's  no  very  great  wonder  if  he  goes  rather 
to  the  bad." 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  a  kinder  feeling  for  my  compan- 
ion comes  over  me. 

"  I  never  was  fond  of  but  one  woman,"  he  goes  on,  presently, 
with  a  gesture  of  his  hand  toward  the  house.  "  I  dare  say  you've 
heard  the  story:  they  wouldn't  let  her  have  me  because  I  was 
poor,  and  God  knows,  poor  little  girl,  hers  isn't  much  of  a  life! 
If  I  had  known  a  girl  like  you,  say  ten  years  ago,  it  would  have 
been  the  salvation  of  me;  but  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  do 
much  good  now.  There's  no  chance  for  a  man  in  this  world  or 
the  next,  I  believe,  unless  he's  fond  of  a  good  woman.  "What 
can  he  think  of  the  sex  when  he  sees  them  selling  themselves 
day  after  day  to  any  wretch  who  has  only  money  enough  to  buy 
them  ?  Just  look  at  the  contemptible  hound  who  is  master  of 
this  place;  and  yet  she  was  a  high-spirited  girl,  and  had  a  heart, 
or  I  used  to  fancy  she  had." 

"  Is  it  only  women  who  sell  themselves  ?"  I  ask,  bitterly,  think- 
ing of  another  case  in  point. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  understand  it,''  he  answers,  turning  to 
look  at  me,  and  evidently  reading  my  thoughts.  "  Charlie  is  a 
very  sensitive,  soft-hearted  fellow,  really;  he  would  be  utterly 
miserable  with  that  creature.  He  never  can  marry  her,  though 
it  seems  as  if  he  was  trying  to  screw  himself  up  to  it  just  now. 
A  better  fellow  never  breathed  than  Charlie  and,  though  you 
hate  me"  (smiling),  "  there  is  nothing  I  should  like  better  than 
to  see  you  two  come  together.  With  money,  mind,  not  with- 
out." 

"  I  don't  hate  you  quite  as  much  as  I  did,"  I  say,  softly, 
stretching  out  a  hand  to  him. 


DIAXA     CAREW.  199 

He  takes  it  and  puts  it  to  his  lips,  and,  for  the  first  time,  I  do 
not  shrink  from  his  touch. 

"  Let  us  make  a  compact!"  he  exclaims,  eagerly;  "  try  to  think 
more  kindly  of  me,  and  I  will  try  to  be  less  of  a  brute  when  I 
am  with  you.'' 

Strange  and  most  unlooked-for  result  of  this  forced  interview, 
as  we  walk  gently  up  the  green  moonlit  slopes  toward  the  house; 
I  feel  no  repugnance  to  being  out  alone  with  him  in  the  quiet 
night.  Before  joining  the  rest  of  the  party,  I  go  to  my  own 
room  to  smooth  my  hair;  it  is  in  the  same  corridor  as  the  morn- 
ing-room, and  as  I  pass  the  latter  to  go  down-stairs  the  door 
stands  open  and  a  flood  of  moonlight  streams  across  the  floor, 
I  cannot  resist  looking  out  of  window  on  a  bright  night,  and 
I  pause  and  go  in.  The  window  is  embrasured,  and  the  curtains 
are  half  drawn  some  two  feet  from  the  glass  itself.  Two  chairs 
stand  between,  and  having  gazed  out  once,  I  find  the  prospect 
so  fair  that  I  drop  into  one  and  continue  my  star-gazing.  I  may 
have  been  there  perhaps  five  minutes,  and  am  thinking  reluc- 
tantly of  leaving  again,  when  a  sound  of  footsteps  comes  along 
the  corridor — a  light  woman's  step  and  a  man's  heavy  one.  The 
door  is  pushed  open,  and  the  pair,  whoever  they  may  be,  come 
in.  I,  being  hidden  behind  the  curtains,  am  about  to  come  forth, 
having  no  desire  to  play  eavesdropper,  when  I  am  deterred  by 
the  sound  of  a  woman's  sobs.  I  pause,  irresolute:  it  is  Lady 
Gwyneth.  Then  comes  Lord  Rexborough's  deep  voice: 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  cry!  What  can  I  do  for  you?  My 
poor  little  darling!'' 

His  voice  is  hoarse,  as  if  with  some  deep  feeling. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it!"  she  sobs;  "  my  life  is  toi'ture.  I  hate  him 
worse  and  worse.  His  meanness  and  vulgarity  are  more  sicken- 
ing every  day;  and,  after  what  I  said  last  night,  lie  taunted  me 
about  you.  and  asked  me  why  I  didn't  go  off  with  you." 

"D n  him!"  answered   Lord  Rex  borough,  hoarsely.     "My 

poor  little  girl,  you'd  better  have  taken  me  and  poverty  after  all. 
Heaven  knows,  if  it  were  not  for  your  own  sake — my  life's  of 
precious  little  value  now— I'd  take  you  away  from  him  this  mo- 
ment. But  you'd  repent  it — a  woman  is  bound  to,  sooner  or 
later;  and  1  care  too  much  for  you " 

No,  I  will  not  hear  more!  I  have  been  standing  in  an  agony 
so  far,  not  knowing  how  on  earth  to  get  away:  but  now  I  make 
a  sudden  rush,  and  am  out  of  the  room,  down-stairs,  and  in  the 
drawing  room,  before  you  could  count  ten. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Colonel  Montagu, 
who  is  standing  near  the  door.  "How  white  you  are!  Have 
you  seen  a  ghost .-" 

"Yes — no,"  I  stammer,  dropping  into  a  chair. 

"Tell  me,"  he  whispers,  bending  over  me  with  bent  brows. 
"I  saw  Rexborough  go  after  you;  he  has  not  dared "(an- 
grily). 

"  No,  no!"  I  cry,  recovering  myself.  "Lord  Rexborough  and 
I  are  quite  good  friends  now,  and  we — we  have  been  admiring 
this  lovely  night  together.'' 

" Oh!"  (looking  dubiously  at  nie).     "I  don't  know  that  Lord 


200  DIANA    CAREW. 

Rexborough  is  the  best  companion  in  tbe  world  for  moonlight 
walks,"  he  adds,  in  a  tone  that  I  might  fancy  jealous,  if  I  did  not 
know  how  utterly  indifferent  he  is  to  me. 

Lady  Gwyneth  does  not  appear  again.  Her  sister  goes,  after 
awhile,  to  find  her,  and,  coming  back,  reports  that  she  is  tired 
and  has  gone  to  bed.  Lord  Rexborough  comes  in  presently,  look- 
ing perfectly  innocent  and  unconcerned. 

"  You  did  not  show  me  that  flower  in  the  conservatory,  after 
all,"  he  says,  coming  straight  up  to  me,  "and  I  want  to  see 
it." 

I  obey  his  summons;  something  in  his  eyes  compels  me  whether 
I  will  or  no. 

"It  was  you  in  the  morning-room,"  he  says,  in  a  low,  hurried 
voice,  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of  sight  of  the  others.  "  You  need 
not  say  a  word  "  (as  I  am  about  to  protest),  "I  know  it  was  pure 
accident.  Very  few  women  would  have  been  as  honest  as  to  go 
when  you  did.  I  need  not  ask  you  "  (looking  keenly  at  me)  "  if 
our  secret  is  safe  with  you.  I  know  it  is." 

At  this  moment,  as  he  is  bending  eagerly  over  me,  Colonel 
Montagu  strolls  in. 

What  is  to  be  the  next  phase  in  my  life?  I  think,  horror- 
stricken,  as  I  brush  out  my  hair  that  night.  What  would  not  I 
have  given  to  avoid  being  the  unwilling  sharer  of  this  hateful 
secret!  And  yet,  feeling  as  I  do  in  the  innocence  and  integrity 
of  my  youth  the  fearful  shame  and  wickedness  attached  to  un- 
lawful love,  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  cannot  but  be  sorry  for  them 
both,  And,  though  until  now  I  have  never  had  any  love  for 
either  of  them,  I  pray  for  them  on  my  knees  to-night,  as  I  might 
have  done  if  she  had  been  my  sister  or  he  my  brother. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

THE  next  day  passes  without  any  incident.  I  am  rather  more 
friendly  with  Lord  Rexborough— rather  less  so  with  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth. It  is  evident  that  she  can  scarcely  control  herself  to  be  com- 
monly civil  to  me. 

The  day  after  that  is  Sunday.  We  are  later  than  usual;  it  is  a 
quarter-past  ten  before  we  sit  down  to  breakfast,  and  nobody 
looks  as  if  they  meant  going  to  church.  I  inquire  diffidently  of 
my  hostess  if  their  church  is  near. 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  going?"  she  asks,  rather  superciliously. 
"  Perhaps  you  would  like  a  carriage.  It  is  half  a  mile  off." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  return.  "  You  will  come,  won't  you?"  (to 
Curly). 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answers,  undecidedly.  "We  get  such  a 
jolly  lot  of  it  at  Eton,  that  I  don't  suppose  it  would  do  me  much 
harm  to  stop  away  for  once." 

"  Do  come,"  1  say,  in  a  persuasive  sotto  voce. 
•  ''  Go  with  sister,  like  a  dear,  good  little  boy,"  interposes  Lady 
Gwyneth,  mockingly.     "She's  afraid  to  leave  you  alone  with 
roe;  1  might  tempt  you  into  some  mischief.     And  it's  much  nicer 
hearing  old  Clarke  droning  away,  and  the  charity  children  sing- 


DIANA    CAREW.  201 

ing  oat  of  tune  through  their  noses,  than  going  round  the  stables, 
and  perhaps  indulging  in  the  sinful  game  of  croquet." 

Of  course  that  decides  him,  as  it  is  intended  to  do,  As  I  wend 
my  way  to  church  alone,  I  am  afraid  my  thoughts  are  not  as 
holy  and  charitable  as  they  should  be.  "Nevermind,"!  say, 
consolingly,  to  my  wounded  spirit;  "  get  through  to-day,  and  to- 
morrow, and  then  your  misery  will  be  over." 

It  is  a  dreary  afternoon.  Colonel  Montagu  is  rowing  the 
heiress  on  the  lake.  Lady  Gwyneth  has  gone  driving  in  her 
phaeton,  and  has  taken  Curly,  principally,  I  believe,  with  the 
amiable  intention  of  annoying  me.  Lord  Rexborough  and  Lady 
Audrey  have  disappeared  together,  and  I  am  left  to  my  own 
devices.  They  are  rather  dull  ones,  it  must  be  confessed,  con- 
sisting chiefly  of  ingeniously  tormenting  exercises  of  mind  and 
memory.  When  my  host,  in  pity  of  my  evidently  lonely  and 
neglected  condition,  bids  me  to  take  a  long  walk  with  him,  I 
acquiesce  gratefully.  His  companionship  may  afford  me  very 
little  pleasure,  but  it  is  in  any  case  better  than  my  own,  and  I  am 
fond  of  walking  for  its  own  sake.  I  endure  patiently  his  talk 
of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  of  whom  I  know  something  more 
than  when  I  first  met  him  at  Warrington  last  winter.  In  the 
evening  they  play  cards,  as  usual.  Curly  declines  at  first,  but 
Lady  Gwyneth  laughs  him  out  of  his  scruples. 

"I  can't  think  how  your  morals  get  on,  Curly,"  she  says, 
scoffingly,  "  when  you  have  not  your  sister  to  look  after  them." 

"  Ah,"  says  Lord  Rexborough,  championing  me,  to  my  sur- 
prise, "  if  I  had  had  such  a  sister  to  look  after  my  morals,  I  should 
have  been  a  precious  deal  better  fellow  than  I  am.  Don't  mind 
being  laughed  at,  my  boy:  and  never  be  ashamed  to  be  influenced 
for  good." 

Lady  Gwyneth  looks  up  at  him,  her  eyes  flashing  with  angry 
surprise. 

"  If  you  think  so  much  of  good  influences,"  she  utters,  with  a 
bitter  sneer,  "  why  don't  you  look  out  for  some  goody  young 
woman  to  convert  you  ?  A  wife  would  be  even  better  than  a 
sister." 

He  answers  her  by  a  look  which  even  I  can  read,  It  says- 
"  You  know  why  I  do  not;"  and  she  drops  her  angry  eyes,  and 
the  conversation  too. 

My  boy  playing  cards  on  Sunday  night!  I  do  not  know  that  it 
is  actually  wicked — far  be  it  from  me  to  condemn  any  one — but, 
though  we  have  not  had  a  religious  education,  we  should  as  soon 
have  thought  of  staying  away  from  church  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing, or  card -playing  on  Sunday  evening,  as  of  flying. 

Curly  has  not  yet  ridden  the  chestnut. 

t:  After  all  your  promises.  Lady  Gwyn,"  he  says,  reproachfully, 
at  breakfast,  on  Monday  morning. 

"You  shall  ride  to-night,"  she  answers.  "  There  is  my  hand 
on  it."  And  she  extends  it  to  him.  Curly,  blushing  a  littie, 
kisses  it. 

"  Bravo,  young  one!"  shouts  Lord  Rexborough,  with  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"  Isn't  he  charming?"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  laying  a  caressing 


202  DIANA    CAREW. 

hand  upon  his  shoulder.     <(  If  I  only  had  him  for  a  month  with- 
out any  counteracting  influences,  he  would  be  quite  perfect." 

"Patience!"  I  think,  grinding  my  teeth;  "patience  until  to- 
morrow,'1 

I  make  one  more  effort*  I  follow  her  to  her  den,  thinking 
grimly  how  my  boy's  bones  (morally)  would  be  lying  whiten- 
ing there  if  she  had  him  for  that  month  she  spoke  of  alone. 

"I  entreat  you  once  more,"  I  cry,  earnestly,  "not  to  let  him. 
ride  that  chestnut.     I  know  it  is  not  safe." 

As  usual  she  makes  me  a  scornful  answer. 

"  It  may  be  nothing  to  you,"  I  return,  hotly,  "  but,  if  anything 
happened  to  him,  papa  and  I  should  never  get  over  it." 

"  I  have  given  my  word,"  she  answers,  coldly,  "  and  I  can  as- 
sure you  I  have  not  the  least  intention  of  breaking  it." 

"  Then,"  I  cry,  passionately,  "  if  anything  happens  to  him, 
it  is  on  your  head!  If  he  is  killed,  you  will  have  murdered 
him!" 

"  Miss  Carew,  you  forget  yourself,"  she  says,  impei'iously, 

'•'  I  shall  never  forget  you,  nor  how  you  have  tried  to  ruin 
Curly,"  I  answer,  bitterly,  and  turn  to  go.  All  day  long  I  am 
tormented  by  fear.  As  four  o'clock  chimes,  the  hour  appointed 
for  the  start,  my  mind  is  at  fever-heat;  at  first  I  think  of  shutting 
myself  in  my  room  and  not  seeing  them  off,  but  something 
impels  me  to  go  down.  The  horses  are  at  the  door.  Curly 
radiant  with  delight,  is  preparing  to  mount. 

"You  get  up  first,"  Lady  Gwyneth  says  to  him,  "and  ride 
gently  down  the  avenue.  She  gets  fidgety  if  she  is  kept  waiting." 

The  chestnut  violently  resists  being  mounted.  She  plunges 
and  almost  breaks  away  from  the  groom  who  holds  her.  Colonel 
Montagu  is  standing  close  to  me;  in  an  agony  of  nervousness  I 
clutch  hold  of  his  arm. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  says,  kindly.  "  She  will  be  all  right 
when  he  is  on  her  back." 

Will  she  ?  He  is  in  the  saddle,  and  she  is  bucking,  plunging, 
rearing  with  all  her  might.  I  am  sick  with  terror;  my  legs  fail 
me.  I  should  fall  if  Colonel  Montagu  did  not  put  a  strong  arm 
around  me. 

"  Let  her  go!"  cries  Lady  Gwyneth.     "  Don't  pull  at  her  " 

As  the  words  are  in  her  mouth,  the  chestnut  rears  up  on  end; 
it  seems  to  my  agonized  eyes  as  though  she  will  never  come 
down  again. 

"  Get  him  off!  get  him  off!  oh,  I  pray,  I  entreat  you!"  I  cry, 
tearing  myself  from  Colonel  Montagu.  "  Oh,  have  mercy  upon 
me!" 

In  my  agony,  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  doing  or  saying.  I 
push  him  violently  forward. 

Curly  is  pale,  but  he  is  still  in  the  saddle. 

"  Better  get  off,  my  boy,"  cries  Colonel  Montagu,  going  toward 
him.  But  whilst  he  speaks,  the  chestnut  rears  again,  quivers  in 
the  air,  totters,  and  falls  back  with  him  under  her.  Oh,  my 
God!  She  makes  a  furious  plunge,  but  he— he  is  lying  dead, 
stone  dead,  on  the  ground  before  my  eyes!  I  am  beside  himl 
Lady  Gwyneth  is  there  too. 


DIANA    CAEEW.  203 

"  Go  away!"  I  shriek,  dragging  her  off.  "  Do  not  dare  to  touch 
him!  It  is  you  who  have  murdered  him!" 

She  goes  without  a  word. 

"I  will  fetch  the  doctor  myself,"  she  mutters.  "I  shall  go 
quicker  than  any  one." 

I  fling  myself  down  beside  my  dead  boy,  I  take  his  beautiful 
golden-haired  head  in  my  arms,  and  cry,  "Oh,  how  shall  I  tell 
papa  ?"  That  is  my  first  thought.  They  are  all  standing  round 
me,  except  Lady  Gwyneth,  and  now  Colonel  Montagu  bends 
down  and  whispers,  "  Let  us  take  him  in;''  and  I  move  aside, 
and  he  and  Lord  Rexborough  take  up  rny  boy  tenderly,  and  I 
follow  them  to  the  house. 

"  Best  take  him  up-stairs  at  once,"  they  whisper  to  each  other, 
and  they  carry  him  up  and  lay  him  on  his  own  bed.  All  this 
time  I  am  thinking  with  dull  agony  of  papa.  How  will  he  bear 
it? — how  shall  I  comfort  him: — who  will  break  it  to  him?  And 
jn  my  pain  I  turn  to  the  man  I  have  loved. 

''  Will  you  go  to  him?"  I  say,  with  trembling,  faltering  lips. 
"•  Will  you  tell  him  ?  You  will  not  mind  the  trouble,  will  you  ? 
And,  oh!  break  it  to  him  gently;  do  not  tell  him  all  at  once;  it 
would  kill  him.'' 

"  Of  course  I  will  go,  this  very  instant,"  he  says.  "  Oh, 
my  poor  child  "  (his  blue  eyes  growing  wet  with  pity),  "  try  and 
bear  up.  If  I  could  only  make  you  know  how  grieved  I  am  for 
you!'7 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  I  answer,  hastily.  "  But  do  not  wait, 
go  at  once,  pray  go.1' 

He  goes,  and  Lord  Rexborough  and  I  are  left  alone. 

"  We  cannot  tell  till  the  doctor  comes,''  he  whispers,  kindly. 
"  I've  often  seen  fellows  look  like  death  with  concussion  of  the 
brain.'' 

I  shake  my  head.  "  He  is  dead,"  I  say — "  dead."  I  have 
taken  up  my  post  at  the  bed-head  to  watch  the  beautiful  marble 
face  that  not  ten  minutes  ago  was  flushed  with  health  and  pleas- 
ure. A  sort  of  stony  feeling  creeps  over  me.  I  feel  as  though 
it  were  not  I,  but  some  other  woman,  who  is  looking  on  at  me, 
and  to  whose  voice  I  am  listening.  I  have  no  tears,  and  in  a 
moment  of  time  my  thoughts  are  traveling  back  all  the  years 
that  papa  and  I  have  watched  over  our  boy,  of  the  sacrifices  we 
have  made,  the  hopes  we  have  indulged,  the  love  with  which  we 
have  loved  him,  the  pride  we  have  had  in  him.  I  take  my  eyes 
off  the  white,  lovely  face  and  turn  them  to  Lord  Rexborough's 
dark  one.  It  is  furrowed  with  pain;  even  his  eyes  have  tears  iu 
them  at  this  piteous  sight. 

"  Poor  lad!  poor  little  girl!"  he  murmurs,  in  a  broken  voice. 

"I  told  her  so,"  I  hear  myself  say,  in  a  cold,  quiet  voice;  "  I 
told  her  she  would  be  his  murderer.  She  would  have  liked  to 
ruin  him  body  and  soul,  but  she  has  only  killed  his  body." 

"  Hush!"  he  answers  me,  in  a  pained  whisper.  "She  meant 
no  harm,  and,  poor  little  woman,  she  will  suffer  most  awfully  at 
this.'' 

"She  suffer!"  I  echo,  in  cold  scorn.  "  What  is  it  to  her?  what 
will  it  be  to  her  in  a  week's  time?  And  papa  and  I"  (my  voice 


204  DIANA     CAREW. 

breaking  into  a  wail),  "  what  shall  we  do  without  him  all  tha 
rest  of  our  lives?" 

And  as  I  think  of  his  bonny  face  and  his  ringing  laugh,  I  break 
down  and  fall  into  an  agony  of  weeping.  I  fling  myself  on  my 
knees  by  my  dead  boy,  and  call  on  him  to  speak  to  me.  I  cry 
aloud  to  God  to  take  pity  upon  me;  and  all  this  time  the  rough, 
coarse  man  whom  I  have  loathed  is  standing  over  me,  stroking 
my  hair  tenderly,  and  bringing  his  loud,  harsh  voice  down  to  a 
soothing  whisper  as  soft  as  a  woman's.  But  I  heed  him  not;  the 
flood-gates  of  my  tears  are  unloosed;  I  am  sobbing  out  all  my 
passionate  love  and  pity  of  the  young  life  crushed  out  in  its  fair 
dawn.  I  am  praying  frantically  for  a  miracle  to  bring  my  dead 
boy  back  to  life.  There  is  a  sound  of  steps  in  the  corridor,  and  I 
look  up  and  see  a  stranger  entering  hurriedly.  He  comes  up  to 
the  bed,  looks  at  my  boy,  takes  up  his  lifeless  hand,  and  I  see  his 
face  contract, 

"  He  is  dead!"  I  mutter;  and,  as  I  speak,  Lady  Gwyneth,  with 
ashen  face,  comes  toward  the  bed. 

I  start  to  my  feet. 

"Go  away!"  I  whisper,  hoarsely;  "do  not  dare  to  come  and 
look  at  your  work!  Remember,  it  was  you  who  killed  him! 
He  would  be  alive  now,  if  it  were  not  for  you!" 

And  so  saying,  I  push  her  violently  toward  the  door. 

But  the  strain  on  my  nerves  is  too  great,  and  I  fall  back  sense- 
less into  Lord  Rexborough's  arms.  When  I  come  to  myself,  I 
am  lying  partially  undressed  on  my  own  bed,  a  kind,  comely- 
looking  woman  is  standing  on  one  side  of  me,  and  on  the  other 
the  doctor— I  suppose  it  is  the  doctor. 

"Thank  God,  she's  come  to,  poor  dear  young  lady!"  says  the 
woman's  voice. 

1  stare  vaguely  from  one  to  other  of  them;  I  cannot  make 
out  what  they  are  doing,  nor  how  I  have  come  here.  My  eyes 
involuntarily  close  again,  and  I  hear  them  whispering  over  me, 
and  feel  a  warm  hand  on  my  wrist.  Have  I  been  ill?  My  brain 
begins  to  make  an  effort;  I  have  seen  the  man's  face  before;  and 
then  all  at  once  consciousness  comes  back,  and  I  remember  all. 
I  start  up,  crying,  wildly. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?    Has  papa  come  ?" 

"No,  no;  he  is  not  dead,"  the  doctor  answers,  in  a  cheery 
voice.  "  Try  not  to  agitate  yourself." 

"  Not  dead!"  I  utter,  looking  at  him  as  if  to  read  him  through 
and  through;  "  not  dead!  Will  he  live?" 

The  doctor  looks  away. 

"  We  must  hope  for  the  best,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice. 

I  sink  back  on  the  pillow  with  a  groan. 

"  Oh,  poor  papa!  poor  papa!"  I  mutter.  "  Who  is  with 
him ?"  I  ask,  presently.  "Not  she!"  (wildly)  "1  will  not  have 
her  near  him.  I  must  get  up  and  go  to  him,"  and  I  try  to  stagger 
up. 

"Wait  a  little,"  says  the  doctor  soothingly.  "You  shall  g7 
presently;  you  can  do  no  good  now." 

"  Why  are  you  not  there,  if  you  say  he  is  alive?"  I  cry,  with  a 
searching  look  at  him. 


DIANA    CAREW.  205 

"  Because  you  wanted  me  more  for  the  moment.  They  would 
have  sent  for  me  if — if  I  could  have  been  of  any  use." 

"  But  you  must  be  of  use,"  I  say,  feverishly,  "if  he  is  alive. 
He  is  not!  You  are  trying  to  deceive  me!'' 

"He  was  alive  twenty  minutes  ago,"  he  answers.  "  But  you 
can  do  without  me  now,  and  I  will  go.  Remember,  though,  if 
you  want  to  be  of  any  use— if  you  want  to  nurse  him — you 
must  not  agitate  yourself;  you  must  try  and  control  your  grief 
as  much  as  possible.  Try  and  bear  up."  And  he  pats  my  hand 
kindly. 

"  Help  me  to  dress,"  I  say  to  the  housekeeper,  whom  I  rec- 
ognize now;  and  she  obeys,  with  many  kind,  homely  words  of 
sympathy,  which  almost  make  me  cry  again,  only  that  I  have 
made  up  my  mind,  for  my  boy's  sake,  to  be  strong.  She  helps 
me  along  the  corridor,  for  I  still  feel  weak  and  giddy,  to  the 
room  which  is  to  witness  the  parting  of  my  darling's'  spirit,  or 
his  resurrection  back  to  life.  As  I  enter  Lady  Gwyneth  comes 
toward  me.  She  is  still  in  her  habit;  her  eyes  are  red,  the  tears 
are  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Do  not  send  me  away!"  she  cries,  in  low.  passionate  en- 
treaty. "  If  you  knew  how  awfully  I  am  suffering,  you  would 
hot  harden  your  heart  against  me.  Blame  me,  hate  me,  but  let 
me  stay!" 

I  shrink  from  her.  but  my  anger  has  died  away  in  my  over- 
whelming grief,  so  I  let  her  stay.  She  kneels  on  the  opposite 
eide  of  the  bed  from  me,  her  hands  buried  in  her  face,  looking 
up  once  and  again  at  the  marble  beauty  that  never  stirs  nor  gives 
the  faintest  sign  of  life.  The  doctor  takes  up  his  post  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  The  light  wanes  and  dies;  in  the  mirror  oppo- 
site the  window  lean  see  his  glorious  death.  Death,  oh, ghastly 
comparison,  for  the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow,  and  my  boy! — ah, 
lie  may  be  where  there  is  no  sunrise  nor  sunset,  where  there  are 
no  more  tears,  in  the  radiant  blessedness  of  God's  eternal  pres- 
ence. And  if  1  were  sure  of  his  beatitude  (the  thought  steals 
over  me)  could  I  be  content  to  do  without  my  boy  again  in  this 
world  ?  could  I  say,  "  It  is  well  'f  Ko,  no!  my  earth-clogged  soul 
rebels. 

"  Oh  Lord,  give  him  back  to  us!"  I  cry.  "  Only  give  him  back; 
we  cannot  spare  him!"  I  am  roused  by  the  doctor  asking  in  a 
whisper  for  a  light.  Lady  Gwyneth  rises  softly,  and,  going  out, 
returns  with  one.  All  our  eyes  turn  to  the  bed,  but  there  is  no 
change!  "We  resume  our  watch.  Presently  there  is  a  sound  of 
wheels;  my  heart  throbs  violently,  I  tremble  in  every  limb. 
Lady  Gwyneth  goes  out,  followed  by  the  doctor,  and  we  two 
wait  alone  for  our  father's  coming.  It  seems  an  eternity  until  I 
hear  his  footsteps.  At  last  I  catch  the  sound;  he  opens  the  door, 
he  is  in  the  room.  Is  it  his  face  that  looks  at  me  so  wan  and 
blanched?  He  comes  toward  the  bed  on  which  all  his  hopes  are 
dying.  There  are  moments  of  supreme  agony  as  well  as  supreme 
bliss  in  which  speech  plays  no  part.  Silently  we  put  our  arms 
round  each  other  in  one  convulsive  sympathy  of  pain;  then  lie 
throws  himself  down  beside  the  bed  and  takes  the  dear  white 
lifeless  hand  in  his.  His  whole  frame  is  convulsed  with  sobs;  the 


206  DIANA    CAEEW. 

scalding  tears  triclde  through  his  fingers.  Women's  tears  are 
of  little  account;  we  weep  for  a  petty  mortification  or  for  mis- 
placed sentiment;  but  a  man's  tears  are  like  his  heart's  blood. 
Here  is  the  end  of  his  hopes,  of  his  sacrifices,  of  his  untiring  love; 
here  lies  the  last  of  his  race,  his  darling,  dying,  and  he  is  power- 
less to  stay  the  King  of  Terrors  for  one  little  hour,  to  win  one  last 
look  of  recognition  from  the  loving  blue  eyes.  If  I  live  to  he  a  hun- 
dred, shall  1  ever  forget  the  impotent  agony  of  that  moment  ?  All 
the  pain  of  losing  my  darling  is  merged  in  anguish  at  my  father's 
giief.  "Help  me,  oh,  God,  to  console  him!"  I  pray,  over  and 
over  again,  in  an  agony  of  intensity.  Then  I  creep  on  my  knees 
beside  him,  and  lift  one  of  his  hands  from  his  face  and  put  it 
round  my  neck,  crying,  from  no  jealousy  or  self-seeking,  God 
knows:  "  Oh,  darling  father,  you  have  me  still!"  He  opens  his 
arms,  and  I  pillow  my  head  on  his  breast,  and  the  tears  of  our 
bitter  anguish  for  our  boy  flow  together. 

Presently  the  doctor  comes  in  again  softly.  Papa  conquers 
his  weakness,  and  speaks  in  a  firm  voice.  "  Is  there  any  hope  ?" 

•'  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope,"  he  answers,  tritely.  But 
he  turns  away  and  sighs.  All  night  long  papa  and  I  keep  our 
vigil  beside  our  wrecked  hopes;  neither  of  us  tries  to  persuade 
the  other  to  leave  the  bedside  or  to  take  rest;  we  understand 
each  other  too  well  for  that.  Often  during  the  night  hushed 
footsteps  come  to  the  door,  and  my  quickened  ear  catches  the 
voice  of  Lady  Gwyneth  or  Colonel  Montagu  or  Lord  Rexbor- 
ough.  Sometimes  they  come  stealthily  in  and  look  at  the  beau- 
tiful lifeless  form  and  go  out  again  sighing.  I  hear  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth whisper  to  papa  that  she  has  telegraphed  to  London  for  an 
eminent  physician,  and  that  he  will  be  here  by  the  first  train  in 
the  morning.  The  night  crawls  on,  and  we  watch  our  boy, 
papa  and  I,  one  each  side  of  the  bed;  sometimes  we  start  when 
the  flickering  light  or  our  overstrung  nerves  make  us  fancy  he 
has  moved.  The  long  night  goes;  the  chill  gray  dawn  succeeds 
it.  Colonel  Montagu  comes  in  softly  and  wraps  a  shawl  round 
my  cold  shoulders.  The  dawn  grows  strong:  the  red  sunlight 
creeps  up  the  sky;  it  waxes  broad  and  hot;  and  yet  he  has  never 
stirred.  We  look  fearfully  at  each  other — papa  and  I — as  the 
strong  light  shows  us  the  waxen  face.  Is  he  gone  from  us  ?  our 
eyes  ask  each  other  with  mute  terror.  But  the  doctor  says, 
'•'  No,  there  is  still  hope." 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

WITH  the  morning  the  great  physician  is  here.  Before  his 
coming  we  had  looked  forward  to  it  with  an  intense  eagerness: 
we  had  fancied  he  would  make  some  speedy  change;  in  our 
hearts  we  had  thought  slightingly  of  the  country  doctor's  skill. 
But  when  he  arrived  he  could  do  no  more;  he  could  bring  no 
color  to  the  white  face,  no  animation  to  the  rigid  form.  Only 
one  thing  he  could  do  to  give  us  comfort,  and  that  he  did.  He 
told  us  of  other  cases  he  had  known  where  life  had  almost  seemed 
•xtinct,  where  the  patient  had  Iain  for  four-and-twentv  houri 


DIANA     CAREW.  207 

without  sign  or  movement,  and  had  yet  recovered  and  been  none 
the  worse  for  the  accident. 

"  And  sometimes,"  says  papa,  in  a  husky  voice,  looking  search- 
ingly  in  the  great  autocrat's  face,  "  more  often  still,  I  suppose  it 
terminates — fatally."  He  can  hardly  bring  himself  to  the  utter- 
ance of  that  dire  word. 

"  We  must  hope  for  the  best,"  is  the  answer.  Even  when  the 
great  oracle  uncloses  its  lips  at  such  a  time,  its  utterance  can  but 
be  trite  and  commonplace. 

And  then  he  consults  and  agrees  courteously  with  his  country 
colleague  as  to  what  is  to  be  done  under  various  contingencies, 
takes  us  by  the  hand  with  grave  and  kindly  sympathy,  bids  us 
be  of  good  heart,  and  goes;  and  with  him  goes  all  the  hope  and 
courage  which  that  fearful  night's  vigil  had  left  us. 

But,  after  all,  our  boy  is  spared  to  us.  He  comes  back  slowly 
from  those  dark  portals  on  whose  dread  threshold  he  had  set 
foot,  whose  gates  had  so  well-nigh  closed  behind  him.  When  I 
first  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  after  that  awful  time.  I  expert 
to  see  my  hair  white.  I  am  astonished  to  find  it  still  its  own 
natural  dark  brown.  When  our  dear  invalid  is  able  to  be  moved, 
with  what  utter  and  intense  joy  do  I  leave  behind  me  the  house 
where  I  have  spent  the  most  grievous  days  of  my  life!  Lady 
Gwyneth  has  redeemed  herself  very  much  in  my  eyes  by  her 
untiring  care  of  and  solicitude  for  Curly:  she  has  shared  our 
night-watches,  and  been  more  tender  and  womanly  than  I  could 
have  believed  possible.  As  for  Lord  Rexborough,  my  dislike  of 
him  has  merged  into  warm  friendship:  and  for  Colonel  Montagu 
—ah,  I  cannot  speak  of  him! — only  to  think,  proudly  and 
gladly,  though  he  may  never  more  be  aught  to  me,  that  the  idol 
I  set  up  to  worship  was  not  unworthy. 

In  what  strange  ironies  fate  delights.  Whilst  Curly  lay  be- 
tween life  and  death,  a  letter  came  to  papa  announcing  "that  our 
mother's  only  brother  had  died  abroad,  leaving  to  Curly  and  me 
each  three  hundred  a  year,  to  be  at  our  own  absolute  disposal 
from  the  time  of  his  death,  not  waiting  for  our  coming  of  age. 
When  our  darling  lay  so  near  the  Ian  I  of  shadows,  this  news, 
that  at  any  other  time  would  have  seemed  so  unutterably  good 
and  joyful,  struck  on  us  like  some  cruel  mockery;  but  now  that 
he  is  growing  strong  again,  and  we  have  the  promise  that  he 
will  in  all  probability  be  none  the  worse  for  his  accident,  our 
new  riches  are  a  delightful  theme.  Curly  and  I  never  weary  of 
talking  about  our  great  possessions,  and  laying  them  out  in  im- 
agination. The  presents  we  will  buy  for  papa,  the  benefits  that 
he  shall  derive  from  the  newly  acquired  wealth  that  seems  so 
enormous  in  our  eyes— these  are  subjects  of  which  we  never 
weary,  which  serve  to  beguile  most  delightfully  the  tedious 
period  of  convalescence. 

September  has  gone,  October  is  here,  and  there  is  talk  of  Curly 
going  back  to  Eton.  Papa  and  he  have  gone  for  a  drive  in  the 
old  pony-carriage,  and  I  am  dawdling  away  the  last  bright  hours 
of  the  short  afternoon  in  our  old-fashioned  garden.  The  last 
few  days  have  been  so  bright  and  hot,  they  might  almost  cheat 
us  into  the  belief  that  summer  was  yet  tarrying  with  us,  but  for 


208  DIANA    CAREW. 

the  unmistakable  signs  around  of  the  year's  decay.  It  is  not 
very  long  after  five  o  clock,  but  Phcebus  is  driving  his  golden 
chariot  apace  down  the  sky  toward  the  long  belt  of  firs  yonder. 
Here  is.  not  actually,  but  very  nearly,  the  last  rose  of  summer 
left  blooming  alone  before  my  eyes,  and  the  fair  summer  blos- 
soms have  given  way  to  the  great,  scentless,  ugly  autumn  flow- 
ers— coarse  dahlias,  flaming  nasturtiums,  gaudy  zinnias,  gor- 
geous gladioli,  and  last,  but  not  least,  big  staring  sunflowers.  It 
is  a  conceit  more  pretty  than  truthful,  I  fancy,  that 

"  The  sunflower  turns  to  her  god  when  he  sets, 
The  same  look  that  she  turned  when  he  rose." 

In  the  present  instance,  at  all  events,  the  sun-god  is  hurrying 
fast  to  his  setting,  and  his  great  ugly  satellites  are  turning  their 
broad  backs  upon  him  in  the  most  unblushing  manner.  I  am 
sitting  on  the  grass,  book  in  hand,  gazing  meditatively  up  the 
long  green  vista  that  divides  the  flower-rows  and  the  two  lines 
of  crooked,  prolific  apple-trees.  They  are  weighed  down  with 
much  store  of  fruit,  crimson,  gold,  green,  and  russet,  and  on 
them  and  through  their  narrow  leaves  to  their  twisted  trunks, 
the  red  rays  play  warmly.  My  book  does  not  occupy  a  great 
deal  of  my  attention;  it  is  a  very  old  one,  and  I  have  read  it 
many  a  time  before.  Its  quaint,  old-fashioned  language  amuses 
me.  I  cannot  help  thinking  Sir  Charles  Grandison  a  bit  of  a 

S-ig,  for  all  he  is  a  very  fine  and  noble-hearted  gentleman,  and 
arriet  Byron's  naive  vanity  in  the  repetition  of  the  extravagant 
praises  of  her  lovers  makes  me  smile.  After  all,  it  must  be  su- 
perhumanly  difficult  to  write  one's  own  story  without  appearing 
either  utterly  uninteresting  or  disgustingly  conceited.  I  open 
the  book  at  random,  and  read: 

"  I  twitched  the  string  just  in  time;  the  coach  stopped.  '  Mr. 
Orme,'  said  I,  '  how  do  you  do  ?  How  does  Miss  Orme  ?' 

"  I  had  my  hand  on  the  coach  door.  He  snatched  it.  It  was 
not  an  unwilling  hand.  He  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  '  God  be 
praised,'  said  he  (with  a  countenance — oh,  how  altered  for  the 
better!) '  for  permitting  me  once  again  to  behold  that  face — that 
angelic  face,'  he  said. 

"  '  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Orme,'  said  I;  '  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
Adieu.' 

"  The  coach  drove  on.     '  Poor  Mr.  Orme,'  said  my  aunt. 

"  '  Mr.  Orme,  Lucy,'  said  I,  '  doesn't  look  so  ill  as  you  wrote  he 
was.' 

"  '  His  joy  to  see  you,'  returned  she.  '  But  Mr.  Orme  is  in  a 
declining  way.'  " 

My  reading  is  here  interrupted  by  the  vision  of  a  white  figure 
flitting  to  and  fro  among  the  shrubs,  evidently  on  its  way  to  me, 
I  discern  it  to  be  Sally  in  her  light  cotton  gown. 

"  What  is  it  V  I  say,  as  soon  as  she  comes  within  hail. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,"  she  responds,  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 
"  It's  Sir  'Ector  Montagu." 

For  a  moment  my  mind  conjures  up  a  vision  of  the  dead  old 
tyrant.  I  could  hardly  be  much  more  disconcerted  by  a  visit 
n"om  him  than  from  his  successor. 


DIANA    CAREW.  209 

"  I  will  come,"  I  say,  picking  myself  up  slowly  from  the 
grass  with  a  fluttering  heart,  and  walking  houseward  with 
most  reluctant  and  unwilling  steps.  His  back  is  turned  to- 
ward me  as  I  enter  the  room.  When  he  faces  me,  I  can  see 
that  he  is  altered,  and  that  he  looks  darker,  thinner,  more 
haggard  than  he  used.  His  greeting  is  a  strange  one:  he  does 
not  give  me  the  usual  commonplace  salutation,  but  takes  me 
by  the  hand  (unlike  Miss  Byron's,  it  is  an  unwilling  one),  and 
says: 

''•  You  once  offered  me  your  friendship  and  I  refused  it 
— rather  ungraciously,  I  fear.  I  have  come  to-day  to  ask  you 
for  it." 

And  then  he  goes  on  abruptly  to  speak  of  Curly's  accident. 

"  I  did  not  hear  of  it  until  some  time  after  it  happened,"  he 
says. 

Then  I  ask  him  about  his  mother. 

"  It  is  on  her  account  I  am  here  to-day,"  he  answers.  "  With- 
out such  an  excuse  I  should  have  been  diffident  about  coming. 
My  poor  mother  is  so  low-spirited  and  dejected — she  cannot  at 
all  get  over  my  father's  death.  Is  it  not  wonderful,"  he  breaks 
put,  "  how  these  good  women  will  deceive  themselves  into  think- 
ing when  a  man  is  dead  that  he  possessed  every  virtue  under 
heaven!  Far  be  it  from  me,"  he  adds,  hastily,  "  to  breathe  one 
unkind  word  of  those  that  are  gone:  death  makes  all  sacred;  but 
it  does  seem  strange." 

"  Lady  Montagu  was  always  devoted  to  Sir  Hector,"  I  an- 
swer. "  I  felt  sure  she  would  take  his  death  dreadfully  to 
heart." 

"She  is  always  reproaching  herself  with  not  having  done 
enough  for  him,  or  made  greater  efforts  to  please  him.  She  is 
quite  morbid  on  the  subject.  I  think  she  remembers  every  time 
she  was  a  minute  late  for  dinner,  and  is  inconsolable  because, 
since  her  illness,  she  did  not  come  down  to  make  his  breakfast. 
The  doctors  recommended  change;  but  no  inducement  will  get 
her  to  leave  the  place.  She  fancies  that  if  you  would  only  come 
over  and  spend  a  little  while  witli  her  it  would  cheer  her  up  and 
make  her  a  different  person.  Cannot  you  come  ?''  he  adds, 
eagerly;  then,  as  he  sees  how  I  shrink  from  the  thought,  "  You 
need  have  no  fear  about  me"  (in  a  pained  voice):  "  you  will  be 
sacred  from  any  annoyance  from  me.  Indeed,  if  it  would  make 
you  happier,  I  will  go  away  altogether." 

"  There  is  no  need  for  that,"  I  say,  reluctantly,  "  and  I  should 
be  glad,  most  glad,  to  go  to  Lady  Montagu  if  I  could  really  be 
of  any  use  to  her;  but " 

" But  what?" 

"  Curly  is  still  here,"  I  say,  "  I  could  not  possibly  leave  home 
until  he  is  gone,  and  then  I  shall  hardly  like  to  leave  papa,  he 
will  feel  his  loss  so  dreadfully," 

But  when  papa  returns  a  few  minutes  later,  he  warmly  seconds 
Hector's  request,  and  utterly  pooh-poohs  all  idea  of  not  being 
able  to  spare  me.  And  so,  most  reluctantly  on  my  part,  it  is 
settled  that  Sir  Hector  (how  strange  his  new  title  sounds!)  shall 
send  the  carriage  for  me  the  week  but  one  following.  Papa  in- 


210  DIANA     CAREW. 

vites  him  to  stay  and  dine.  He  accepts,  apparently  nothing 
loath.  His  face  seems  to  grow  less  haggard,  the  unfrequent 
smile  comes  to  his  lips,  and  he  becomes  quite  cheerful.  For  one 
moment  before  he  leaves  we  are  alone  together. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  to  come,"  he  whispers,  hurriedly,  "  I 
swear  not  to  vex  you  by  any  allusion  to  the  past.  We  will  be 
friends,  nothing  more  "  (with  a  sigh).  And  then  papa  returns, 
and  he  bids  me  good-bye. 

So  it  happens  that  once  again  I  go  to  Alford — to  the  house 
•where,  in  one  little  day,  all  my  future  was  spoiled  and  marred. 
Lady  Montague  is  sadly  altered;  the  delicate  color  in  her  cheeks 
has  faded  to  a  waxen  hue,  her  eyes  are  dim  with  much  weeping. 
She  greets  me  with  all  her  old  kindness,  but  the  very  sight  of 
me  affects  her  and  brings  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"  Do  not  mind  me,  my  dear,"  she  says,  tremulously.  "  Every- 
thing now  brings  back  my  dreadful  loss." 

How  many  a  devoted  husband,  I  wonder,  has  been  mourned 
far  less  than  the  cruel,  selfish  old  tyrant  of  Alford!  She  talks 
much  of  him;  indeed,  it  seems  the  only  theme  on  which  she  cares 
to  speak.  I  listen,  with  scant  patience,  inwardly,  to  her  self- 
reproaches,  knowing  how  utterly  unmerited  they  are;  but  it  is 
useless  to  try  to  persuade  her  that  she  has  not  failed  in  wifely 
duty  and  consideration  to  her  lamented  lord.  There  is  a  great 
alteration  in  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  house — far  less 
state,  and  a  great  deal  more  comfort.  We  dine,  not  in  the  great 
cold  banqueting-hall,  but  in  a  cozy  little  dining-room,  furnished 
simply,  but  in  the  most  perfect  taste,  from  the  many  oaken 
treasures  of  the  hall.  There  is  no  unnecessary  parade  of  gold 
and  silver  plate,  and  we  are  waited  upon  by  Simkins  and  one 
footman,  who  retire  when  they  have  served  us,  and  are  sum- 
moned by  a  hand-bell.  Hector's  manner  to  his  mother  almost 
makes  me  love  him;  it  is  a  mixture  of  the  most  tender  kindness 
and  respect.  She  may  transgress  as  much  as  she  chooses — and  I 
am  bound  to  say  she  does— the  rule  of  punctuality,  without  a 
look  or  a  hint  from  him.  If  his  soup  is  cold  through  waiting 
for  her,  he  makes  no  remark.  What  a  blessed  change  his  rule 
must  be  for  the  servants!  But,  though  he  is  so  considerate,  he 
lacks  no  dignity,  and  they  run  with  far  more  alacrity  for  love  of 
him  than  they  did  for  fear  of  his  father.  His  considerate  thought- 
fulness  for  his  mother  can  be  illustrated  by  one  example.  He 
has  given  the  servants  strict  orders  not  to  address  him  as  Sir 
Hector  before  his  mother;  in  her  presence  he  is  always  plain  sir, 
as  of  old.  For  my  own  part  I  am  glad,  for  I  can  never  hear  the 
name  and  title  without  an  unpleasant  reminiscence  of  its  former 
owner. 

The  morning  after  my  arrival,  Hector  takes  me  to  the  stables 
and  shows  me  a  pretty  pair  of  ponies. 

"  These  are  for  you  to  drive,"  he  says.  "  I  am  in  hopes  you 
will  be  able  to  entice  my  mother  out.  It  will  seem  different 
from  taking  a  formal  drive  in  a  large  carriage." 

He  has  them  put  to,  and  makes  me  drive  him  round  the  park, 
and  I  enjoy  it  most  thoroughly.  I  cannot  help  fancying  (per- 
haps with  the  vanity  I  deprecated  in  Miss  Byron)  that  the  ponies 


DIANA    CAREW.  211 

are  here  more  on  my  account  than  his  mother's.  How  good  and 
thoughtful  he  is!  why  cannot  I  care  for  him?  True  to  his  word, 
he  never  makes  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  past;  but  for  an  oc- 
casional look  in  his  dark  eyes,  I  might  think  he  had  quite  got 
over  caring  for  me.  We  have  an  unceasing  subject  of  conver- 
sation in  the  improvements  he  proposes  making.  Every  evening 
we  pore  together  over  plans  of  cottages  and  schools.  We  make 
delightful  little  pictures  of  clean,  comfortable  houses,  with  trim 
gardens,  and  places  where  the  cottager  may  keep  his  pig  with- 
out annoyance  to  himself  or  his  neighbors;  where  he  may  have 
his  potatoes  and  cabbages  and  fruit-trees;  where  he  may  keep 
bees,  if  he  has  a  taste  that  way,  and  even  fowls;  a  little  dry- 
ing-ground, where  the  good  wife  can  hang  out  her  clothes,  in- 
stead of  employing  the  surrounding  bushes  and  hedges:  in  short, 
a  habitation  so  pleasant  and  inviting  that  it  would  be  a  real 
pleasure  to  live  in  it,  even  though  one  had  a  higher  social  status 
than  that  of  a  farm  laborer. 

Meanwhile  Lady  Montagu  dozes  away  comfortably  in  her 
arm-chair  by  the  fire,  secure  from  any  interruption  of  her  pleas- 
ant slumbers.  The  days  pass  on  neither  very  slowy  nor  very 
swiftly,  as  is  usually  the  case  when  one  leads  a  comfortable,  un- 
eventful life.  She  is  decidedly  far  more  cheerful  than  when 
I  came:  her  eyes  are  brighter,  her  cheeks  less  waxen,  she  smiles 
not  unfrequently,  and  without  that  dreary  effort  which  was  so 
painful  to  see  at  first.  She  has  driven  several  times  with  me  in 
the  pony-carriage,  and  enjoys  it.  The  weather  is  clear  and 
bright,  and  she  has  no  symptoms  of  her  old  enemy  bronchitis. 

Neither  she  nor  Hector  ever  allude  to  Colonel  Montagu:. once 
or  twice  when  the  post-bag  comes  in  I  recognize  his  handwrit- 
ing, but  she  reads  her  letter  without  a  word  of  comment.  I 
long  to  know  if  he  is  going  to  marry  the  heiress,  but  dare  not 
ask.  It  is  evident  enough,  by  their  own  silence,  that  they  do 
not  wish  me  to  refer  to  him. 

After  a  fortnight  at  Alford,  I  begin  to  talk  of  going  home,  al- 
though they  both  use  every  argument  in  their  power  to  dissuade 
me.  I  am  happy  engouh ;  it  is  from  no  wish  to  leave  either  of 
them.  I  love  Lady  Montagu  dearly,  and  for  her  son  I  feel  the 
warmest  regard;  every  day  makes  me  like  him  more,  for  every 
day  brings  fresh  instances  of  his  real  unobtrusive  goodness.  I 
cross-question  myself  severely  on  the  subject  of  my  inability  to 
love  him,  but  my  rebellious  heart  flings  to  the  wind  any  notion 
that  he  can  ever  be  more  to  me  than  a  friend.  No!  Loyal 
je  serai  durant  ma  vie.  I  have  never  loved,  shall  never  love, 
but  one  man. 

It  is,  however,  on  papa's  account  that  I  want  to  go  home,  for* 
I  know  quite  well,  in  spite  of  ten  thousand  protestations  to  the 
contrary,  that  he  does  miss  his  little  girl  sadly.     I  have  elicited 
so  much  from  severe  cross-questioning  of  Gay. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  says,  after  great  pressure,  "  it's  no  us© 
my  goin'  against  the  truth,  nor  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  do  so, 
though  your  pa  would  be  very  angry  with  me  for  letting  it  out, 
but  he  does  seem  quite  moped  and  lost-like  when  you're  away. 
Even  that  Sally,  whose  head  is  as  thick  as  a  deal  board,  she  can't 


212  DIANA    CAREW. 

help  noticin'  of  it — how  he  scarcely  eats  anything,  and  always 
reads  a  book  all  meal-times.  And  the  fuss  he  makes  of  that 
dog"  (meaning  the  pug),  "you  wouldn't  believe  it;  and  when 
you  are  coming  back  he  always  brings  the  letter  to  me,  and  his 
eyes  brighten  up,  and  he  says,  '  Well,  Gay,  your  young  lady's 
coming  home  to-morrow,  or  next  week,'  as  it  may  be,  and  then 
I  promise  you,  my  dear,  we  all  go  about  with  twice  as  much  life 
in  us  as  before." 

So  I  know  that  I  am  missed,  and  that  makes  me  resolute  in 
refusing  to  be  away  for  very  long  at  a  time.  But,  as  Hector  en- 
treats me  so  earnestly  and  genuinely  for  his  mother's  sake,  I 
yield,  and  stay  on  another  week.  But  all  the  entreaties  in  the 
world  are  powerless  to  keep  me  a  day  longer.  I  promise  to  come 
over  frequently  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time. 

So  I  take  my  leave,  and  go  back  to  papa  and  Gay  and  the  pug, 
I  have  heard  people  assert  that  pugs  are  stupid.  I  should  like  to 
show  them  mine.  Of  all  the  devoted,  faithful,  intelligent  friends 
in  the  canine  world,  commend  me  to  a  pug  I  I  could  write  chap- 
ters upon  chapters  about  dogs,  and  though  I  have  not  had 
experiences  among  my  own  kind  bitter  enough  to  make  me 
appreciate  it  thoroughfy,  I  can  still  recognize  the  fine  satire  in 
the  speech  of  the  man  who  said,  "Plus  je  connais  les  hommes, 
plus  f  'admire  les  chiens." 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

NOT     TOLD     BY     DIANA. 

DIANA  is  sitting  over  the  fire  one  dull  November  afternoon 
three  days  after  her  return  from  Alford.  She  has  brought  home 
a  goodly  store  of  books  and  is  deep  in  one  of  them.  She  ha& 
glanced  through  the  window  and  assured  herself  that  there  is 
nothing  to  attract  her  out  of  doors;  her  conscience  does  not  prick 
her  on  account  of  the  dogs,  as  they  have  had  a  famous  run  be- 
fore lunch;  so  she  arms  herself  with  a  novel  with  the  real  de- 
light of  a  passionate  lover  of  reading,  piles  up  the  blazing  fire 
with  more  wood,  and  ensconces  herself  in  a  cozy  chair  with  her 
feet  on  the  fender.  The  bright  flames  throw  a  ruddy  light  upon 
her  hair  and  a  delicate  pink  shade  on  her  face;  her  slender,  ring- 
less  hands  look  scarce  strong  enough  to  support  the  heavy  tome 
over  which  she  is  poring  so  intently;  her  small  slippered  feet 
are  crossed  on  the  fender,  and  she  has  evidently  made  up  her 
mind  to  an  afternoon  of  uninterrupted  enjoyment.  But  she  has 
only  read  a  chapter  and  a  half  when  the  unwonted  sound  of  the 
door-bell  makes  her  start. 

"  Oh,  dear!"  she  says,  half  aloud,  with  an  accent  of  unfeigned 
disappointment,  "  who  can  it  possibly  be?  Just  as  I  was  getting 
so  intensely  interested,  too!" 

She  is  not  left  long  in  suspense.  Gay  herself  ushers  in.  with 
the  ceremony  due  to  so  important  a  guest,  Sir  Hector  Montagu. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  says  Diana,  in  a  tone  of  friendly  interest, 
as  soon  as  the  first  greetings  are  over.  "  How  pale  you  look!" 
He  takes  a  seat  opposite  to  her,  and  for  a  moment  makes  no  an- 
swer. She  has  time  to  note  the  haggard,  hunted  expression  of 


DIAXA     C'AREW.  213 

his  face,  changed  almost  out  of  knowledge  in  the  last  three 
days. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  says,  in  a  low,  agitated  voice;  "  I  cannot  be 
silent  any  longer.  I  gave  you  my  word  not  to  open  my  lips 
about  my  love  at  Alford,  and  I  kept  it,  did  I  not  ?— kept  it  to  the 
letter.  But  it  is  too  strong  for  me.  Can  you  not  give  me  hope  ? 
Oh,  for  God's  sake,  if  you  can,  do!" 

And  the  hunted  eyes  look  at  her  in  terrible  earnest.  At  his 
words,  all  the  kindly  warm  feeling  of  friendship  for  him  that  has 
grown  up  in  her  heart  during  the  last  three  weeks,  dies  out  and 
gives  way  to  a  cold  feeling  of  repulsion.  Her  face  becomes  pale 
and  she  shivers,  ever  so  little,  but  yet  he  sees  it. 

"  What  is  it,"  he  cries,  in  a  voice  of  indignant  pain,  "  that  re- 
pels you  so  ?  Am  I  loathsome  ?  Am  I  something  to  shrink 
from  as  you  might  from  a  leper  ?  Am  I  so  repulsive  that  even 
you,  who  are  so  good  and  charitable  you  would  not  willingly  pain 
any  one.  cannot  but  shiver  at  the  sound  of  my  voice  when  it 
speaks  of  love?" 

Diana's  kind  heart  is  stung  by  remorse. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  do  not  say  that!"  she  cries,  hastily,  and  then 
looking  round  as  though  to  conjure  up  help  from  some  invisible 
presence.  "Oh!"  she  says,  remorsefully,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  what  can  I  do  to  make  him  not  care  for  me?" 

He  makes  a  great  effort  over  himself,  but  his  eyes  are  full  of 
unutterable  pain.  Presently  he  says,  humbly: 

"  Could  you  not  try  to  tolerate  me  ? — could  you  not  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  thought  of  me  by  degrees?  And  then  surely,  in 
time,  my  love  for  you  could  not  fail  to  bring  out  some  answering 
feeling  in  your  heart.'' 

Her  eyes  are  fixed  mournfully  on  the  fire;  she  does  not  know- 
how  to  answer  him,  since  it  is  impossible  that  she  can  give  him 
hope.  He  takes  faint  courage  from  her  silence,  and  continues: 

"  After  that  night  at  Alford  I  did  everything  in  my  power  to 
forget  you.  I  vowed  that  I  would  conquer  my  love,  but  "  (sigh- 
ing) "  it  was  too  strong  for  me.  Ever  since  my  father's  death  I 
have  occupied  myself  perpetually  about  the  place,  trying  to  get 
oblivion  by  hard  work  both  bodily  and  mental.  But  all  the  time 
I  hungered  for  the  sight  of  you ;  and  when  you  came  you  made 
the  place  heaven  for  me,  as  I  knew  you  would.  God  knows 
what  a  bitter  effort  it  cost  me  to  keep  silent  all  the  time;  but  I 
had  given  you  my  word.  Now  I  must  speak." 

Diana,  genuinely  distressed,  casts  about  her  for  something 
that  will  make  her  refusal  of  him  less  harsh. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  persist  in  thinking  so  well  of  me,"  she 
says,  rather  forlornly.  "I  can't  think  why  you  should  care  so 
much  about  me;  indeed,  I  am  not  so  very  nice,  really;  you 
would  be  very  much  disappointed  in  me." 

"  Should  I  ?"  he  answers,  eagerly.  "  I  am  quite  content  to  risk 
that." 

"  But,"  she  says,  raising  troubled  brown  eyes  to  his,  and  trv- 
ing  back  since  her  last  words  were  unsuccessful,  "  surely  it  could 
be  no  happiness  to  you,  to  any  man,  to  huve  a  woman  who  could 


214  DIANA     CAREW. 

not  make  the  smallest,  faintest  pretense  of  loving  him.  And  " 
(sorrowfully,  because  she  hates  to  give  him  pain)  "  I  could  not." 

"  It  seems  strange,"  he  says,  turning  his  eyes  from  hers  and 
gazing  into  tli3  fire.  "I  used  to  be  rather  a  proud  fellow,  but 
now  I  seem  to  myself  a  very  abject.  I  would  rather  have  your 
indifference  than  any  other  woman's  love.  I  would  rather " 
(looking  at  her  with  fierce,  miserable  eyes)  "  have  you  if  I  knew 
you  hated  me  than  go  without  you." 

Diana's  resources  have  come  to  an  end.  What  can  one  say  to 
a  madman?  She  takes  refuge  in  silence.  Oh,  if  her  father 
would  only  come  in!  she  thinks;  if  some  diversion  of  any  kind 
would  occur  to  put  an  end  to  this  miserable  tete-a-tete  !  But 
nothing  does  happen,  and  she  sits  staring  mutely  at  the  fire  and 
trying  to  get  inspiration  out  of  the  glowing  logs.  But  none 
comes,  and,  after  a  long,  unbroken  silence,  she  says,  desper- 
ately: 

"  What  am  I  to  say  to  you?" 

"Say!"  he  cries,  clutching  at  the  very  faintest  ray  of  hope; 
"say  you  will  try.  Think  about  it;  try  to  get  used  to  the 
thought;  let  me  come  and  see  you  often;  tell  me  how  to  make 
you  like  me.  What  is  there  in  the  world  I  would  not  do  or  com- 
pel myself  to,  if  it  made  you  think  more  kindly  of  me?  If  you 
send  me  away  "  (feverishly)  "  you  send  me  to  the  devil!  I  shall 
throw  up  everything  at  home  and  go  away  somewhere,  to 
Africa  or  China — it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  as  long  as  I  only  put 
an  impossible  distance  between  myself  and  the  sight  of  you." 

"  What!'' cries  Diana,  "and  give  up  all  the  plans  for  doing 
good  that  you  have  looked  forward  to  for  years,  now  when  every- 
thing is  in  your  power,  in  your  own  hands?" 

"  Yes,"  he  says  bitterly,  "  even  so.  I  am  a  poor  philanthropist, 
am  I  not,  to  let  all  my  good  resolves  be  balked  by  a  pet  at  Fate; 
but  if  I  stayed  here  without  you  I  should  go  mad;  there  is  mad- 
ness somewhere  in  the  family,  I  believe  "  (looking  rather  wild). 

Then,  as  he  sees  Diana's  frightened  look,  he  says  calmly: 

"  No,  no;  do  not  be  afraid.  I  am  sane  enough;  only  about 
going  to  the  further  ends  of  the  earth  I  am  quite  serious.  Oh, 
Diana  "  (coining  closer  to  her,  and  taking  one  white,  reluctant 
hand),  "  think  what  we  might  do  together,  how  happy  we  would 
make  our  people,  how,  working  together,  we  should  strive  to 
lessen  some  of  the  gigantic  burden  of  sorrow  and  want  that 
grinds  the  soul  and  bodies  of  the  poor.  Has  that  no  weight  with 

?)u — you  who  are  so  pitiful,  so  tender-hearted  and  charitable? 
our  life  could  not  but  be  a  happy  one,  since  it  would  be  so  full 
of  goodness  and  charity,  and  you  would  be  loved  "  (his  deep  voice 
quivering  with  strong  passion)  "  as  I  believe  before  God  no 
woman  was  ever  loved  before.  What  is  my  fate  to  me  ?  is  it  to 
be  a  life  of  love,  a  life  of  usefulness  and  honor,  or  will  you  con- 
demn me  to  be  a  miserable  outcast  ?" 

He  is  pouring  out  his  very  soul  in  his  words:  it  is  no  exagger- 
ated language,  such  as  men  think  right  to  use  on  such  occasions; 
every  syllable  comes  straight  from  his  suffering  heart. 

Diana  is  overcome:  the  intensity  of  his  passion  masters  her: 
Her  face  is  ashen  pale;  her  lips  will  scarce  unclose  to  pronounce 


DIANA    CARE  I  Tr.  215 

her  heart's  death-warrant.  In  a  moment  of  time  she  has 
thought  of  her  barren  future,  of  the  hopelessness  of  her  own 
love,  and  as  he  draws  the  vivid  picture  of  his  own  life  to  come, 
which,  according  to  her  fiat,  shall  be  good  or  evil,  the  thought 
of  sacrificing  herself  dawns  in  her  heart. 

"  Let  it  be  as  you  wish!"  she  almost  gasps. 

He  seizes  both"  her  hands  and  looks  into  her  eyes  as  though  he 
would  pierce  her  very  soul. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  he  says.  "  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't 
deceive  me!— don't  promise  and  take  your  word  back  again, 
unless  you  want  me  to  blow  my  brains  out!'' 

She  draws  away  from  him  and  stands  upright. 

"  If  you  are  willing  to  let  me  sacrifice  myself,"  she  says,  look- 
ing at  him  with  cold  misery  in  her  eyes — "  well  "  (with  a  gasp- 
ing sigh)  "so  be  it!" 

"  It  shall  not  be  a  sacrifice,"  he  cries,  passionately;  "  you  will, 
you  sJiall  b&  happy.  Unless  you  are  the  most  unreasonable 
woman  God  ever  made — and  I  know  you  are  not  that — you 
must  be  content  with  your  life:  nay,  you  shall  love  me  yet.'' 

For  one  moment,  in  his  wild  joy  of  having  her,  willing  or 
unwilling,  he  loses  his  stern  self-control,  and  lays  his  burning 
lips  on  her  cold,  most  reluctant  ones.  And  if  the  King  of  Ter- 
rors had  claimed  her  as  his  bride,  and  sealed  her  to  himself  with 
his  icy  kiss,  she  could  not  have  shrunk  and  shivered  with  a 
more  ghastly  horror.  But  Hector,  if  even  he  is  conscious  of  it, 
does  not  care:  his  blinded  eyes  see  only  the  radiant  picture  of 
the  future,  wherein  she  shall  love  him  as  he  loves  her. 

She  starts  from  him,  crying,  with  unconscious  cruelty: 

"  Do  not  make  me  hate  you!  You  know  I  have  no  love  to  give 
you.  I  am  sacrificing  my  future  to  yours.  Do  not  make  the 
sacrifice  too  impossible!*' 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  says,  humbly,  taking  her  cold  hand  quietly. 

Before  she  knows  what  he  is  doing,  he  has  slipped  on  her  fin- 
ger a  ring  blazing  with  diamonds. 

"  Do  you  know,"'  he  whispers,  triumphantly,  "I  have  carried 
that  about  with  me  ever  since  the  day  I  went  to  London  when 
you  were  first  at  Alford,  in  the  forlorn,  wild  hope  that  some  day 
this  might  come  to  pass'r" 

Diana  feels  inclined  to  tear  it  off  and  fling  it  away.  What 
cares  she,  though  he  could  deck  her  from  head  to  foot  with  dia- 
monds, each  one  as  big  as  the  Koh-i-noor?  Would  they  make 
her  heart  less  heavy,  her  sacrifice  less  bitter  ? 

"  I  know,"  he  utters,  an  uneasy  flush  coming  to  his  dark  brow, 
"  that  you  cannot  get  reconciled  to  the  idea  all  at  once.  Per- 
haps you  hate  me  for  having  taken  an  unfair  advantage  of  you, 
but  you  will  think  better  of  it  in  time.  Only  don't,  I  implore 
you.  steel  your  heart  against  me:  try,  when  I  am  gone,  to  think 
more  kindly  of  me.  I  won't  stop  now "  (looking  wistfully  at 
her,  as  though  hoping  she  might  bid  him  stay). 

She  does  not:  she  is  longing  to  be  rid  of  his  hateful  presence, 
to  be  alone  with  her  gigantic  new  misery — the  worst,  she  thinks 
now,  that  has  ever  befallen  her.  So,  with  one  lingering  clasp  of 


916  DIANA    CAEEW. 

her  unwilling  hand,  he  goes — goes,  astounding  as  the  fact  may 
seeni,  wildly,  feverishly  happy. 

Diana,  left  to  herself,  feels  like  one  in  a  dream.  She  moves 
to  the  window  arid  looks  out  at  the  chill,  dull  day,  chill  and  dull 
as  her  own  hopes  of  the  future — looks  with  vague  eyes  at  the 
bare  trees  with  their  scanty  remnant  of  yellow  leaves,  at  the 
sodden  gravel-walk,  the  few  straggling  bits  of  color  among  the 
dying  autumn  flowers.  She  shivers,  and  comes  back  to  the 
warm  fire  and  leans  with  one  arm  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  her 
head  resting  on  her  hand.  Glancing  unconsciously  downward, 
her  eyes  light  upon  the  ring  which  is  flashing  back  a  hundred 
lovely  lights  from  the  glowing  flames.  She  drags  it  off  and  flings 
it  away  from  her,  and  then  as  a  sudden  remembrance  darts 
across  her,  she  tears  out  her  handkerchief  and  passes  it  sharply 
again  and  again  over  her  lips  until  the  blood  comes.  The  lips 
that  she  had  meant  should  never  more  be  touched  by  mortal 
man!  that  until  now  had  been  sacred  to  the  memory  of  that  one 
golden  day!  She  begins  to  realize  what  she  has  done.  A  vista 
of  unspeakable  horror  opens  before  her.  What!  to  live  in  the 
house  that  is  yet  his  home,  where  he  needs  must  come  and  she 
needs  must  see  him,  and,  seeing,  love  him,  though  she  is  his 
brother's  wife!  And  at  this  ghastly  thought  she  flings  herself 
down  on  the  ground  and  sobs  and  moans  with  such  terrible  an- 

guish  that,  could  the  man  who  was  so  confident  of  winning  her 
>ve  see  her,  he  must  needs  relinquish  all  hope. 
Sir  Hector  mounted  his  horse— 

"  He  gave  his  bridle-rein  a  shake," 

and  rode  off  triumphantly,  with  flashing  eyes.  In  his  exultation 
he  tossed  a  sovereign  to  the  old  man  who  did  duty  as  groom 
and  gardener  at  Carew  Court.  The  latter,  gazing  at  his  retreat- 
ing form,  had  half  a  mind  to  run  after  him  and  ask  if  he  had 
not  mistaken  the  gold  piece  for  a  shilling,  but  pleased  himself 
by  deciding  that  it  was  intended  as  a  gift,  now  Sir  Hector  had 
come  into  so  much  wealth  and  splendor.  "  Anyhow,"  he  re- 
marked to  himself,  "  it's  nothin'  to  him,  and  it's  afortin'  to  me." 
Saying  which,  after  one  more  loving  glance,  he  put  it  away  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  where  it  warmed  the  cockles  of  his  old 
heart. 

Meantime,  Sir  Hector  rode  on  his  way,  For  the  first  mile  he 
felt  nothing  but  a  wild  sense  of  triumph;  at  the  second,  an  un- 
pleasant remembrance  of  Diana's  stony  look  of  misery  thrust 
itself  upon  him;  at  the  third,  a  reaction  came,  and  he  pulled  up 
his  horse  suddenly  by  the  roadside.  Bruno,  having  had  a  toler- 
ably long  journey,  was  not  fretful  or  impatient  at  this  sudden 
pause,  but  betook  himself,  unchecked,  to  searching  in  the  hedge 
for  some  stray  bit  of  edible  green,  wherewith  to  beguile  himself 
whilst  awaiting  his  master's  pleasure.  If  any  one  had  come 
along  the  road  just  then  they  might  have  been  astonished  on 
this  chilly  November  afternoon  to  see  a  horse  and  his  rider  sta- 
tioned by  the  hedge-side,  as  though  it  were  a  broiling  afternoon 
and  they  were  taking  shelter  from  the  too  ardent  rays  of  a  July 
sun.  Sir  Hector's  brows  were  deeply  knit.  Here,  in  the  hushed 


DIANA    CAREW.  217 

gray  stillness,  between  the  two  hedgerows  of  wintery  red  berries 
and  tangled  brambles,  he  was  fighting  with  himself  the  hardest 
battle  he  had  ever  yet  been  called  upon  to  fight  during  his  six 
lusters  of  life— fighting  with  the  hopes  that  were  dearer  to  him 
than  life.  One  horrible  thought  had  taken  possession  of  him — 
the  same  one  that  had  moved  Diana  to  her  outburst  of  anguish ;  it 
was  the  thought  of  his  brother.  He  knew  well  enough  that  she 
had  loved  him,  that  it  was  that  love  which  had  stood  between 
himself  and  her  before,  that,  for  aught  he  knew  was  standing 
between  them  now.  Had  he  not  been  in  the  same  house  with 
her  for  weeks  only  two  months  ago,  and  though  over  his  father's 
death-bed  he  had  wrung  from  him,  on  certain  conditions,  the 
oath  that  he  would  never  speak  to  Diana  again  of  love,  what 
faith  was  there  to  be  put  in  him  ?  Had  he  not  at  Alford,  the 
very  same  evening  that  he  had  volunteered  to  withdraw  himself 
from  his  (Hector's)  light,  made  open  and  violent  love  to  her  ? 
But  came  the  ghastly  thought,  suppose  it  turned  out  as  he  hoped, 
suppose  Diana  came  to  care  for  him;  could  he  hope  to  keep  her 
forever  out  of  sight  of  Charlie?  And  suppose  when  she  did 
meet  him,  after  however  long  a  time,  the  old  love  came  back  ? 
Even  if  he  trusted  implicitly  in  her  high  principle,  would  that 
hinder  his  own  jealous  heart  from  beating  with  furious  suspicion, 
even  hatred  of  his  brother— of  them  both,  perhaps.  And  yet  to 
tear  this  new  hope,  that  had  seemed  like  the  unclosing  of  heav- 
en's gates  to  him,  out  of  his  heart,  to  leave  a  torn,  gaping  wound, 
that  all  time  would  fail  to  cicatrize. 

It  is  over;  with  one  throe  of  agony  he  has  torn  the  dear  hope 
out  of  his  life.  He  picks  up  the  reins,  turns  his  horse's  head, 
and  rides  swiftly  back  to  Carew  Court.  The  old  groom,  seeing 
him  come  back,  is  smitten  with  a  grievous  suspicion  that  he  has 
discovered  his  error  and  returned  for  the  sovereign,  and  is  pre- 
paring to  think  meanly  of  him  in  his  disappointed  heart.  But 
Sir  Hector  only  throws  him  the  reins,  muttering  that  he  has 
forgotten  something,  and  turns  hastily  to  the  house.  The  hall 
door  is  ajar;  he  pushes  it  open  and  goes  in.  No  one  meets  him, 
and  he  makes  his  way  to  the  room  where  he  left  Diana.  With- 
out knocking,  he  opens  the  door,  and  sees  her  prone  by  the  fire- 
side, wailing  and  weeping  in  her  bitter  abandonment.  She 
does  not  hear  him,  and  he  stands  for  a  moment  looking  at 
her. 

"  It  is  well  that  I  came,"  he  thinks,  with  a  bitter  pang. 

He  closes  the  door,  and  she,  hearing  the  sound,  turns  quickly. 

"  Dry  your  tears,"  he  says,  in  a  harsh,  husky  voice;  "  do  not 
sob  in  that  agonized  way;"  for,  try  as  she  may,  she  cannot,  all  at 
once,  still  the  gasping  throes  that  shake  her  slender  frame.  "  I 
have  come  to  release  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cries,  eagerly;  "  you  are  right:  you  see  it 
could  not  have  been.  Oh  "  (rising  to  her  feet  and  giving  a  sigh 
of  utter  relief),  "I  am  glad  that  you  see  it  too.  There,"  she 
says,  stretching  out  a  hand  to  him  that  is  no  longer  unwilling, 
and  smiling  through  her  tears,  "  I  will  make  a  fresh  compact 
with  you.  I  will  always  be  your  friend— your  best  friend.'' 

"  Never!"  he  answers,  harshly,  more  pained  than  words  could 


218  DIANA    CAREW. 

express  at  her  joyful  acceptance  of  his  bitter  sacrifice.  Surely 
she  who  was  his  ideal  of  all  that  was  tender  and  womanly  might 
have  some  intuitive  sympathy  for  the  great  waste  and  havoc  of 
his  life,  which  she  herself,  however  unwittingly,  has  caused! 
"  After  to-day,  if  I  can  help  it,  I  will  never  see  you  again." 

"You  will  think  better  of  it,"  she  says,  and  all  the  time  she 
is  stealing  furtive  glances  around  to  see  what  has  become  of  the 
ring  she  flung  away  in  her  disgust.  Presently  she  espies  it  glit- 
tering behind  the  leg  of  a  chair.  He  has  turned  away,  and  is 
looking  with  miserable  eyes  into  the  fire,  and  she  takes  the  op- 
portunity of  stooping  to  pick  it  up  and  slip  it  on  her  finger 
again.  As  if  he  had  not  seen  it  lying  the  very  first  moment  he 
entered  the  room! 

Diana  stands  looking  at  him,  rather  embarrassed  how  to  re- 
turn it.  She  does  not  want  to  give  him  pain,  but  she  cannot 
keep  his  valuable  token,  that  but  so  late  was  the  badge  and  sym- 
bol of  the  loathed  enslavement  of  her  future.  As  she  is  casting 
about  uneasily  in  her  mind  for  some  appropriate  yet  unwound- 
ing  words  with  which  to  return  it,  he  turns  and  looks  at  her. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you  for  the  last  time!"  he  mutters,  in  a  voice 
harsh  with  strangled  emotion;  "  let  me  be  quite  sure  that  the 
woman  who  spoiled  my  life  was  as  lovely  as  I  thought  her!" 

Diana  stands  before  him  with  the  color  shifting  uneasily  in 
her  face;  not  even  the  bitter  fit  of  crying  has  made  her  unbeau- 
tiful.  The  troubled  brown  eyes  look  up  at  him  with  unfeigned 
sorrow  for  his  pain.  He  gives  one  long,  fixed  look  at  her. 
"  Good-bye,"  he  says,  •with  a  sigh,  wrung  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart,  not  attempting  to  touch  her,  or  to  take  other  farewell 
than  that  one  sorrowful  word.  With  that  he  turns  to  go. 

"Stop!"  she  says,  detaining  him;  "this  ring"  (drawing  it 
from  her  finger) — "please  take  it." 

He  grasps  it  with  mingled  wrath  and  pain,  and  flings  it  furi- 
ously into  the  fire's  red  heart.  But  his  fury  has  more  of  pain 
than  anger  in  it. 

He  is  gone,  and  Diana  on  her  knees  is  carefully  rescuing  the 
costly  bauble  from  its  fiery  grave.  When  it  is  cool  enough,  she 
wipes  it,  and  lays  it  aside  to  be  returned  on  some  future  occasion. 

She  feels  very  sorry  for  him,  but  in  truth  and  reality  she  does 
not  even  dimly  guess  at  the  bitter  pain  she  has  inflicted  upon 
him.  We  know  well  enough  our  own  pangs,  but  which  of  us 
ever  realizes  those  of  his  brother  man  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

NOT     TOLD    BY     DIANA. 

As  Hector  rode  home,  he  felt  that  all  pleasure  in  life,  all  love 
of  it,  was  gone  from  him.  Until  now  he  had  always  had  hope, 
however  dim  or  vague,  that  Diana  would  be  his  one  day;  now 
he  realized  fully  the  futility  of  his  dreams.  In  one  hour's  time, 
life  had  grown  black  and  bitter;  it  held  nothing  for  him  in  the  fut- 
ure that  he  valued.  Many  a  boy  in  his  passionate  disappoint- 
ment has  felt  the  same,  and  in  a  month's  time  has  laughed 
again  and  gone  about  the  world  with  a  very  cheery  comfortable 


DIANA     CAREW.  219 

interest  in  it;  but  this  would  not  be  the  case  with  Hector.  He 
was  not  reckless  or  impulsive;  he  knew  his  own  mind;  having 
lost  the  one  woman  whom  he  loved,  no  other  could  ever  take 
her  place.  There  might  be  a  thousand  more  made  after  the 
same  external  pattern,  women  with  bright  eyes,  sweet  red  lips, 
and  gracious  ways,  but  there  was  only  one  Diana  Carew  for 
him.  He  had  never  loved  or  much  desired  any  other  woman; 
this  one  possessed  all  his  heart.  And  she  had  tossed  it  lightly, 
nay,  contemptuously,  away. 

For  a  few  hours  he  kept  up  bravely.  He  dined  with  his 
mother,  talked  to  her  cheerfully,  as  though  to-day  had  been  as 
commonplace  as  other  days,  read  or  seemed  to  read  the  papers 
as  usual  while  she  dozed,  and  kissed  her  with  the  wonted  affec- 
tionate kiss  when  she  retired  for  the  night.  He,  too,  went  to 
his  room,  and  there  he  laid  his  arms  on  the  table,  and,  burying 
his  face  in  them,  sobbed — not  like  a  child,  as  the  common  phrase 
runs,  but — as  only  a  stern  grown  man  can  sob,  and  he,  if  God  is 
merciful  to  him,  but  once  in  a  lifetime.  It  was  his  farewell  to 
love,  to  hope,  to  life,  all  but  the  mere  mechanical  every-day 
part  of  it.  What  should  he  do?  he  asked  himself;  if  he  stayed 
on  here  alone,  with  all  the  huge  long  hours  in  which  to  eat  his 
heart  out  in  vain  regrets,  he  should  go  mad.  Then  he  formed  a 
bitter  resolve.  How  many  a  time  had  he  not  heard  of  men 
going  to  the  devil  when  overtaken  by  grievous  disappointment, 
and  coming  back  after  a  time  the  worse  perhaps  in  health  and 
pocket,  but  tolerably  cured  of  their  heartaches,  anyhow  with 
the  wounds  cauterized. 

He  had  never  been  a  saint;  he  had  as  much  of  earthly  alloy  as 
most  men,  not  bad  men,  have;  hut  lie  had  never  loved  vice  for 
its  own  sake,  had  always  had  a  healthy  disgust  for  its  grossness 
and  coarseness:  but  now  he  meant  to  fly  to  its  foul  waters  for  the 
nepenthe  without  which  he  {needs  must  die  or  lose  his  reason. 
He  was  going  to  try  dissipation,  like  a  man  of  sober,  temperate 
habits  might  toss  off  glass  after  glass  of  brandy  as  an  antidote  ta 
the  agonies  of  neuralgia.  So  he  went,  and  returned  a  fortnight 
later  in  the  state  a  man  of  his  temperament  would  naturally 
do,  his  nerves  unstrung,  his  whole  soul  filled  with  unutterable 
loathing  and  horror  of  himself  and  all  connected  with  his  moral 
experiment.  He  had  a  new  remedy  in  view  now.  He  longed  for 
death  as  men  long  "  after  hidden  treasures,"  but  he  would  not 
take  his  life  with  his  own  hand:  that  would  be  unmanly,  that 
would  stain  his  ancient  name  with  dishonor.  But  there  were 
other  means.  He  took  to  hunting  every  day  when  there  was  a 
meet  within  twenty  miles.  He  had  always  been  a  fair  rider; 
now  he  became  a  desperate  one — rode  as  straight  as  a  die;  no 
place  was  too  big  or  too  ugly  for  him.  The  best  riders  in  the 
field  looked  askance  at  him.  "  By  Jove!*'  said  one  to  another, 
*'  one  would  think  a  fellow  who  has  just  come  in  to  a  title,  and 
such  property  as  Montagu,  would  set  a  little  more  value  on  his 
life.  Hang  me,  if  one  wouldn't  think  the  fellow  wanted  to 
break  his  neck!" 

And  of  course,  as  it  always  happens  when  a  man  burns  to 
shake  off  life,  it  clings  all  the  stronger  in  him,  Sir  Hector  cam" 


220  DIANA    CAREW. 

scathless  out  of  his  rides  for  death,  without  a  bruise  or  a  scratch; 
he  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life.  And  he  would  come  home 
worn  out  and  sleep  for  hours  from  sheer  exhaustion,  and  then, 
as  regularly  as  the  hour  of  two  came  round,  he  would  wake  up, 
and  be  delivered  over  to  his  tormentor— memory.  He  tried  to 
read,  but  Diana's  eyes  looked  out  at  him  from  the  pages;  try  as 
he  might,  he  could  not  escape  her.  And  in  the  morning  he 
would  come  down  white,  wild,  haggard -looking,  and,  if  it  was  a 
hunting-day,  would  mount  his  horse,  or  if  not,  would  go  over 
his  farms,  or  take  a  gun  and  walk  twenty  miles  after  birds;  but 
his  hand  and  eye  were  unsteady,  and  he  did  not  often  hit  any- 
thing now.  When  he  did,  he  felt  an  unsportsmanlike  feeling  of 
regret,  and  would  take  the  dead  bird  in  his  hand,  smooth  the 
ruffled  feathers  gently,  and  say,  "I  might  have  left  the  life  in 
you,  since  you  enjoyed  it.  I  wish  to  God  you  were  ali^e  again, 
and  I  was  dead!" 

His  mind  had  quite  lost  the  strong,  firm  balance  which  it  had 
possessed  formerly  in  a  greater  degree  than  most  men's. 

Lady  Montagu  was  away  for  a  few  weeks  at  Hastings,  to  get 
over  the  worst  of  the  winter,  but  she  was  coming  home  for 
Christmas,  which  would  soon  be  here  now.  Simkins  remarked 
with  genuine  distress  the  change  in  his  master,  and  confided  his 
doubts  and  fears  to  Mrs.  Bishop,  the  comely  housekeeper,  with 
whom,  at  no  very  distant  date,  he  contemplated  setting  up  the 
Montagu  Arms.  With  the  penetration  of  her  sex,  she  made  a 
very  good  guess  at  the  cause  of  the  change  in  Sir  Hector,  and 
was  not  long  in  bringing  Simkins  round  to  her  own  view  of  the 
case. 

"  Oh,  woman!  woman!"  be  said,  apostrophizing  the  sex  in 
general,  and  Mrs.  Bishop  in  particular,  "  what  you  has  to  answer 
for!  Not  but  what  I  must  say  if  there  is  to  be  a  new  Lady  Mon- 
tagu, there's  no  one  I  would  like  to  see  occupying  the  place  bet- 
ter than  Miss  Carew." 

"Tut!"  answered  Mrs.  Bishop,  huffily;  "we  don't  want  no 
more  mistresses  here  than  my  lady." 

Sir  Hector  had  always  made  a  point  of  going  to  church  on 
Sunday  mornings;  not  that  he  took  any  particular  pleasure  in  it, 
but  because  he  considered  it  right  for  the  sake  of  example.  He 
found  it  wearisome  work  sometimes  listening  to  the  vicar's 
platitudes.  In  his  heart  he  was  skeptically  inclined,  like  many 
intellectual  men,  and  insisted  on  bringing  revelation  to  the  test 
of  reason.  At  home,  however,  and  in  his  own  parish,  he  eschews 
all  argument  on  theological  subjects,  and,  for  aught  any  one  at 
Alford  knew  to  the  contrary,  his  religious  convictions  were  as 
deep  and  sincere  as  those  of  the  vicar  himself.  In  church  he 
behaved  with  the  decorum  and  propriety  of  a  gentleman:  who 
was  to  know  that  one  half  the  time  he  was  indignantly  refuting 
to  himself  the  axioms  delivered  from  reading-desk  and  pulpit, 
and  the  other  half  thinking  of  utterly  irrelevant  subjects  ?  He 
had  great  ideas  of  consistency,  too;  it  seemed  a  monstrous  ab- 
surdity, not  to  say  crime,  to  pray  to  God  on  a  Sunday  to  deliver 
you  from  sins  that  you  had  the  fullest  intention  of  committing 
probably  the  very  next  week.  He  steadfastly  refused  to  "  eat 


DIANA    CAREW.  221 

and  drink  his  own  damnation"  by  communicating  whilst  his 
life  was  still  impure.  This  was  the  only  religious  exercise  of  which 
he  seemed  outwardly  unobservant.  But  in  the  future's  happy 
vistas  he  had  dreamed  of  a  time  when  all  this  would  be  changed, 
when  his  life  would  be  pure  without  effort,  when  he  would  ban- 
ish all  doubts  from  his  heart,  and,  kneeling  beside  the  woman  he 
loved,  would,  with  a  glad  heart,  also  offer  up  ungrudgingly  his 
prayer  and  praise. 

There  are  very  few  men  who  do  not  look  for  and  respect  piety 
in  a  woman:  even  a  bad  man  is  shocked  by  irreligiou  or  flippant 
sneers  at  virtue  from  a  woman's  lips.  Hector  had  watched 
Diana  in  church  with  stealthy  and  secret  gladness;  had  gazed 
at  her  sweet,  serious  face,  listened  to  her  devout  utterances, 
longed  for  her  dear  sake  to  be  better,  and  looked  forward  to 
the  time  when  she,  by  her  example  and  influence,  should  lead 
him,  too,  heavenward.  And  now  all  these  hopes  were  shattered 
in  the  dust,  and  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  but  to  "  curse 
God  and  die."  How  could  he  pray  to  a  God  who  had  decreed 
the  utter  ruin  and  blasting  of  his  life  ?  how  love  him  as  a  Father 
who  would  not  willingly  afflict,  when  he  had  laid  this  crushing 
misery  upon  him  ?  And  between  him  and  Heaven  now  there  was 
a  great  gulf  fixed — the  gulf  of  deliberate  sin.  But  though  he  had 
ceased  even  formally  to  utter  a  prayer,  he  nevertheless  went  to 
church,  partly  from  habit,  partly  from  a  sense  of  responsibility, 
and  chiefly  to  get  rid  of  two  hours  of  the  weary  Sabbath.  The 
Sunday  before  Christmas  Day  he  went  as  usual.  A  stranger 
was  doing  duty,  and  Hector  prepared  himself  to  listen  with  a 
shade  more  interest  than  usual  to  the  sermon.  It  was  no  marvel 
of  oratory  or  elocution — a  few  plain  words,  plainly  spoken;  but 
they  gave  Hector  the  idea  of  a  new  weapon  wherewith  to  repel 
the  enemy  that  beset  him  in  the  night  and  in  the  noonday.  The 
preacher  was  quite  a  young  man,  nothing  much  to  look  at,  but 
he  had  that  most  excellent  gift  in  a  preacher,  the  art,  whether 
it  was  art  or  not,  of  making  his  hearers  feel  that  he  was  thor- 
oughly in  earnest.  Moreover,  he  knew  when  to  stop:  he  did  not 
fatigue  his  already  half -weary  congregation  with  a  lengthy  dis- 
course. His  sermon  occupied  just  thirteen  minutes  by  the  clock 
in  the  organ- gallery,  and  when  he  had  made  his  point  he  con- 
cluded. Some  such  words  as  these  they  were: 

"  Which  among  us  has  led  a  life  so  charmed  that  there  has  not 
entered  into  it  a  bitter  grief  and  disappointment  ?  And  here 
to-day,  I  doubt  not,  there  are  hearts  which  are  troubled,  sorrow- 
ful, perhaps  despairing.  And  to  those  hearts  I  speak  now.  I 
say  to  them,  have  you  ever  tried  prayer  ?  I  do  not  mean  the 
morning  and  even  prayers  that  you  gabble  through  by  rote. 
prayers  many  of  them  set  and  formal  ones  for  things  which  per- 
haps you  do  not  want — but  prayer,  the  very  outpouring  of  your 
souls,  the  prayer  you  would  pray  on  your  knees  with  all  the  in- 
tensity your  voice  and  heart  could  command,  if  you  were  asking 
the  life  of  one  you  loved  better  than  yourself,  of  an  earthly 
sovereign  or  judge.  If  you  have,  I  will  answer  for  it  that  you 
never  pleaded  to  my  Master  in  vain.  I  do  not  say  that  he  saw 
fit  to  give  you  the  thing  for  which  you  asked,  in  your  blindness 


222  DIANA    CAREW. 

you  may  have  asked  something  which,  had  it  been  granted,  would 
have  been  your  curse  instead  of  your  blessing;  but  you  have 
gained  peace,  strength,  courage;  you  have  been  able  to  say,  af- 
terward: 'It  is  better  if  the  will  of  God  be  so.'  If  you  have 
never  tried  it — if  you  have  said  to  yourself:  '  What  does  God 
care  ?  he  will  not  trouble  himself  to  look  down  upon  my  wants 
and  sufferings,'  or  if  you  have  thought:  '  God  must  hate  me, 
because  I  have  led  a  wicked  life;  I  dare  not  approach  him,'  here, 
now,  in  his  name,  I  bid  you  shake  off  all  doubt  and  fear. 
Prayer  is  the  talisman  against  misery.  Go  to  him;  go  in  secret, 
where  no  disturbing  thoughts  from  the  outside  world  can  beset 
you,  and  there  pour  out  all  your  soul  to  him  as  you  have  never 
yet  done  to  God  or  man;  sti'ive  as  Jacob  strove  when  he  cried  out 
in  his  anguish:  '  I  will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me,' and 
I,  the  humblest  of  his  ministers,  will  answer  for  my  great  Lord 
and  Master  that  he  who  goes  unto  him  humbly,  sincerely,  ur- 
gently, shall  in  no  wise  be  cast  out." 

There  was  no  grandeur  or  even  originality  in  the  words;  the 
speaker  was  commonplace  enough,  but  his  eyes  kindled  as  he 
uttered  them,  his  voice  trembled  with  strong  feeling,  and,  as 
he  spoke,  there  was  such  intense  conviction  in  his  utterance  that 
no  one  could  think  he  was  preaching  a  remedy  whose  efficacy 
he  had  not  himself  proved. 

Hector,  whose  heart  was  hardened  like  the  nether  millstone, 
said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  home,  "  I  too  will  try  if  there  is 
balm  in  his  Gilead."  And  he  who  had  not  knelt  in  sincere 
prayer  to  God  since  he  was  a  youth,  shut  himself  in  his  room 
and  prayed  with  wild  intensity.  But  he  rose  from  his  knees 
cold,  unconscious  of  any  response  to  his  agony  of  entreaty.  He 
had  but  beaten  the  air  with  vain  and  empty  words. 

But  had  he  prayed  aright  ?  He  had  not  besought  resignation 
or  submission,  or  the  power  to  get  good  out  of  what  seemed  evil; 
he  prayed  that  the  woman  he  longed  for  might  be  his,  or  that  he 
might  forget  her.  He  felt  as  though  God  were  angry  with  him 
and  would  not  hear  him.  Who  were  those,  he  wondered  bit- 
terly, who  had  tried  the  paths  of  sin  and  found  them  fair  and 
flowery  ?  Apples  of  the  Dead  Sea,  that  filled  the  mouth  with 
gall-bitter  ashes,  they  had  been  to  him.  Then,  since  vice  was 
hateful  and  virtue  impossible,  what  should  he  do  but  die  ?  The 
next  two  days  he  rode  harder  than  ever;  his  favorite  hunter  was 
killed,  but  he  got  off,  as  usual,  without  a  scratch. 

On  the  third  day  Lady  Montagu  returned.  She  was  positively 
frightened  at  the  change  in  her  son  as  he  helped  her  out  of  the 
carriage.  "  My  dear  boy,"  she  cried,  anxiously,  "  what  is  the 
matter  with  you?  Why  did  you  not  send  for  me  before?" 

"  Matter!"  he  answered,  laughing  a  laugh  that  sounded  pain- 
fully hollow  and  unmirthful.  "  What  should  be  the  matter  ?  I 
am  as  well  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life.  Why  mother,  you  look  as 
scared  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  went  with  him  to  her 
boudoir. 

"  Hector,"  she  sa'd,  when  they  were  alone,  with  a  searching 


DIANA    CAREW.  223 

e*  »nce  into  his  eyes  "  something  must  ail  you,  or  you  could  not 
so  changed  in  a  month." 

"  I  expect,"  he  answered,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  that  you  have 
eome  straight  from  the  sight  of  your  handsome  son,  and  had  for- 
gotten how  ugly  I  was." 

Lady  Montagu  looked  at  him  in  unfeigned,  painful  amazement. 
He  was  never  wont  to  speak  bitterly  to  her. 

"  The  trnth  is,"  he  said,  changing  his  tone,  "  I  have  been  hunt- 
ing a  good  deal  lately.  You  see,  there  is  not  a  great  deal  of  ex- 
citement in  this  lively  place,  and  I  expect  it  has  taken  it  out  of 
me  a  little."  Then  he  added,  abruptly;  "Perhaps  I  may  as  well 
make  all  my  confession  at  once,  to  save  you  the  trouble  of  worm- 
ing it  out  of  me  by  degrees.  I  asked  Miss  Carew  again,  and  she 
I'efused  me." 

Lady  Montagu  looked  at  him  with  all  her  mother's  love  yearn- 
ing out  of  her  wet  gray  eyes.  If,  perhaps,  she  had  loved  her 
bright,  handsome  son  the  best  in  fair  days,  in  the  dark  ones  her 
heart  went  out  to  the  one  in  trouble,  as  the  mother's  heart  al- 
ways does. 

'•  My  poor  boy!"  she  said,  softly,  clasping  his  hands  tenderly  in 
hers.  And,  but  for  the  shame  of  it,  the  stern  man  would  fain 
have  laid  his  grieved  head  upon  that  tender  breast,  and  poured 
his  bitter  pain  into  the  loving,  listening  ear,  as  he  had  done  long 
years  ago  in  his  childhood. 

But  now  he  drew  himself  away,  and  said,  huskily,  "  God 
bless  you,  mother!  I  know  you  are  sorry  for  me;  but,  if  you 
love  me,  never  speak  of  it  again!  Men  get  over  these  things," 
he  added,  with  a  smile  so  wan  it  almost  broke  her  heart  to  see. 

She  said  not  another  word,  but  as  she  watched  him  all  that 
evening  her  anxiety  deepened;  she  felt  there  must  be  something 
physically  as  well  as  mentally  amiss,  to  make  his  face  so  drawn 
and  sharp,  his  eyes  so  hollow  and  sunken,  his  usually  firm,  strong 
hands  so  shaking  and  nervous.  The  next  day  she  sent  a  note  to 
the  doctor,  who,  as  is  not  unseldom  the  case,  was  also  the  tried 
and  trusted  friend  of  the  family. 

"  Come  and  dine  with  us  in  a  friendly  way  to-night,"  she  wrote. 
"  There  is  something  very  wrong  with  Hector." 

Mr.  Ben  yon  was  shrewd,  kindly,  practical:  under  his  auspices 
Hector  and  his  brother  had  gone  through  the  infantine  troubles 
that  were  then  considered  de  rigueur,  had  won  their  interested 
affections  by  prescribing  nice  instead  of  nasty  remedies  when 
they  were  ill,  and  by  romping  with  them  when  they  got  well 
again,  and  the  liking  had  not  slackened  when  they  grew  to  men. 
He  often  dined  at  the  Court,  and  was  always  a  welcome  guest. 
On  this  occasion,  though  his. dining  was  no  unusual  event,  Hec- 
tor understood  perfectly  that  he  had  been  sent  for  on  his  ac- 
count. But  he  made  no  sign,  and  received  the  doctor  with  his 
usual  cordial  courtesy.  When  Lady  Montagu  left  them  after 
dinner,  Mr.  Benyon  continued  to  sip  his  wine  with  his  wonted 
enjoyment,  talked  about  sport,  local  matters,  and  so  forth.  All 
the  same  he  was  watching  his  companion  narrowly.  He  ob- 
served his  restlessness,  saw  how  little  he  ate,  how  hurriedly  and 
without  any  pleasure  he  gulped  down  his  wine,  as  a  man  might 


224  DIANA     CAREW. 

swallow  a  soothing  draught.  He  saw  how  sunken  his  eyes  were, 
how  livid  the  lines  underneath  them,  how  his  cheeks  were 
sunken  and  his  lips  so  parched  and  dry  he  had  frequently  to 
moisten  them.  The  doctor  did  not  like  the  look  of  him.  He 
said  to  himself,  shrewdly,  "There's  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of 
this,  I  suspect,  or  he's  taken  to  gambling;  most  probably  the 
former."  It  was  no  good  to  lead  up  gently  to  the  subject,  he 
concluded.  Hector  was  not  easy  to  tackle.  So,  suddenly,  with- 
out any  preface,  he  said,  looking  hard  at  him,  with  his  glass 
midway  back  from  his  mouth  to  the  table: 

"  There's  something  wrong  with  you,  my  friend;  you  want  a 
little  of  my  advice." 

"  What  a  penetrating  fellow  you  are,  Benyon!"  returned  Hec- 
tor, with  a  mirthless  laugh.  "  Of  course  my  mother  didn't  put 
you  up  to  this  ?" 

"  It  doesn't  want  much  putting  up  to,"  answered  the  other, 
bluntly.  "  Do  you  happen  to  have  looked  in  the  glass  lately?  I 
suppose  I  might  ask  the  usual  question,  '  Who  is  she  ?'  though 
it's  nothing  to  my  purpose  to  know;  but,  rather,  what  the  deuce 
has  she  been  doing  to  you?" 

"  Who  can  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ?"  said  Hector,  wearily. 

"  I  can,  to  a  certain  extent.  Keep  your  digestion  right,  eat 
more,  drink  less,  and  get  as  much  exercise  and  fresh  air  as  you 
can." 

"  I've  hunted  five  and  six  days  for  the  last  three  weeks,  and 
have  been  in  the  saddle  on  an  average,  eight  hours  out  of  every 
twenty-four." 

"  The  deuce  you  have!  If  you  go  on  like  that,  you'll  knock  your- 
self up  completely.  You're  not  used  to  so  much  of  it,  and  in 
your  present  state  it  is  likely  to  do  you  a  great  deal  more  harm 
than  good.  Try  something  else,  get  some  one  to  lend  you  a 
yacht,  and  go  off  to  the  Mediterranean." 

Hector  laughed  a  harsh,  grating  laugh. 

"  Rare  good  thing,  the  deck  of  a  yacht,  when  you  want  to  get 
out  of  yourself!  Try  again,  Benyon." 

The  doctor  rose,  and  came  round  to  where  Hector  was  sit- 
ting. 

"  My  pulse,  eh  ?"  (anticipating  him).  "  There  you  are;  and  my 
tongue  is  quite  at  your  service." 

Mr.  Benyon  sat  down  in  front  of  him,  looking  grave,  and  said 
quietly: 

"  This  won't  do;  you  can't  stand  this  sort  of  game  much 
longer." 

"  No,"  replied  Hector,  coolly,  "  I  shall  be  in  the  lake  with  the 
car]),  or  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"  I  should  not  wonder,"  said  Benyon,  calmly.  "  Your  nerves 
are  unstrung,  your  brain  is  over-excited,  and  both  are  acting 
most  injuriously  on  your  stomach." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  as  wise  as  that  myself.  There  is  only 
one  chance  for  me;  give  me  of  the  waters  of  Lethe.  I  haven't 
tried  that  yet.  Your  chloral  and  morphia  will  poison  me  quicker 
than  brandy;  so  much  the  better." 

"  There  is  something  you  want  more  than  drugs  or  opiates/' 


DIANA    CAREW.  225 

"And  that  is?" 

"A  little  common  sense.  Why,  what  the  deuce!"  cried  the 
doctor,  warmly,  "  a  cool-headed,  sensible  fellow  like  you  to  let 
anything  bring  you  to  this  state!  I  couldn't  have  believed  it  of 
you." 

"Could  you  not?  Suppose,  now''  (with  suppressed  fire), 
"that  you  loved  a  woman  to  madness,  and  felt  you  could 
not  live  without  her:  how  would  you  cure  yourself  of  your  pas- 
sion  ?'' 

"  How?"  replied  Benyon,  promptly.  "  Why,  marry  her  if  she 
were  single,  or  run  away  with  her  if  she  were  married." 

"Ay,  but  suppose  she  was  free,  and  yet  no  earthly  means, 
neither  love,  mercy,  nor  pity,  would  make  her  consent  to  be 
yours  ?" 

"  Then  I  would  forget  her,"  rejoined  to  doctor,  stoutly. 

"  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?" 

"But  if  you  can't!"  cried  Hector,  passionately.  "You  say  I 
am  a  cool-headed,  sensible  fellow;  do  you  suppose  I  haven't  tried  ? 
Tried!  good  God!  what  have  I  not  tried?  perpetual  motion,  ex- 
cess— iu  short"  (laughing  harshly),  " all  the  good  old  approved 
remedies  for  the  disease." 

"And  that  is  precisely  the  way  you've  brought  yourself  to  your 
present  condition.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  frighten  you,  but  it's 
my  duty  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth;  if  you  go  on  like  this  you'll 
bring  on  paralysis  or  softening  of  the  brain.  You  must  make  an 
effort  to  shake  it  off.  Occupy  your  mind  with  something,  no 
matter  what;  take  a  fair  amount  of  exercise,  without  overdoing 
it;  and,  above  all,  beware  of  stimulants.  I  only  wish,"  said 
Benyon,  smiling  and  laying  a  kind  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  I  could 
cure  you  right  off  by  giving  you  the  young  lady;  only  perhaps 
the  remedy  might  be  worse  than  the  disease." 

"The  girl  I  love  is  an  angel,"  said  Hector,  fiercely,  "and  I 
would  give  every  acre  of  Alford  to  possess  her." 

"  I  talked  in  that  way  once,"  remarked  the  doctor,  ruefully. 
Report  said  his  lady  had  been  a  beauty  and  had  a  temper.  It  said, 
furthermore,  that  when  the  former  attribute  departed  it  left  tha 
latter  in  greater  force  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

NOT      TOLD     BY      DIANA. 

AFTER  all,  Mr.  Benyon  came,  advised,  prescribed  in  vain.  At 
Sir  Hector's  request,  he  sent  him  an  opiate;  but  instead  of  sooth- 
ing it  excited  him  furiously  and  made  him  ten  times  worse.  So  ha 
threw  physic  to  the  dogs  and  led  the  same  life  as  before,  getting 
gradually  worse,  both  physically  and  mentally.  He  took  to  sit- 
ting up  all  night,  and  reading  until  after  the  fatal  hour  of  two; 
then  he  would  get  perhaps  three  hours  of  feverish  sleep,  and 
wake  again  oppressed  with  the  nightmare  of  despair,  which,  if 
anything,  is  almost  more  grievous  in  the  morning  than  in  the 
night-watches, 


236  DIANA    CAREW. 

One  evening,  in  quest  of  something  fresh,  he  stumbled  upon  a 
book  of  curious  old  stories,  or.  as  they  were  called,  chronicles, 
printed  in  old  French.  Glancing  over  it,  he  came  to  a  page  on 
which  read: 

"  The  story  of  a  sad  knight,  who  for  a  woman's  sake  did  put  an 
end  unto  his  life." 

"  That  might  suit  me,"  he  thought,  grimly,  as  he  carried  the 
book  to  his  smoking-room.  And  there  he  read,  detailed  with 
much  circumlocution,  how  the  sad  knight  was  betrothed  in  his 
boyhood  to  his  cousin,  who  was  the  fairest  among  maidens.  And 
they  grew  up  together,  and  ever  as  the  days  went  by  he  loved 
her  with  a  deeper  and  greater  devotion.  And  she,  though  she 
had  affection  unto  him  as  unto  a  brother,  had  no  other  love  to 
give  him,  and  this  she  most  frequently  put  before  him,  and  did 
most  urgently  entreat  him  that  he  would  not  press  a  marriage 
upon  her  which  \vould  be  hateful  unto  her.  Then  one  day  he  came 
suddenly  upon  her  and  said,  "  I  have  come  to  claim  you,  since 
if  I  do  not  presently  have  you  for  my  own  I  needs  must  die." 
Then  the  maiden  answered  him  in  grief  and  scorn:  "  Since,  then, 
one  of  us  must  die,  fo'r  if  you  die  without  me  I  shall  die  with 
you,  draw  now  your  sword  and  thrust  it  here  unto  my  heart." 
"  If  you  love  not  me,"  he  made  sorrowful  answer,  "  it  is  because 
you  love  another."  "And  if  it  be  so!"  she  cried:  "must  he 
needs  die  too  ?  O  valiant  knight,  you  who  can  slay  others,  can 
you  not  slay  your  own  desire,  and  make  glad  two  hearts  that 
love  each  other  !"  "  God's  death!"  he  cried,  in  wrath,  "prate  not 
to  me  of  your  loves!"  and  he  turned  and  left  her  with  a  sore 
heart. 

Then  wist  he  not  what  to  do,  since  his  pain  was  so  great  and 
bitter  it  went  not  from  him  either  by  day  or  night,  and  in  those 
things  where  before  he  had  taken  pleasure  he  found  no  joy. 
Then  said  he  to  himself,  "  Why  should  I  spare  my  life,  that  is  no 
longer  aught  but  grief  and  pain  ?  I  will  to  the  wars,  and  there 
for  her  sake  will  I  get  myself  slain." 

Then  he  sought  once  more  the  damsel,  and  said  unto  her. 
"  Fare  you  well,  cruel  one,  since  you  will  have  none  of  my  love!" 
"  Nay,"  the  maiden  answered,  moved  to  pity  at  sight  of  his 
grieved  countenance,  "  go  not  away.  Nay,  where  will  you  go?" 
And  he  answered,  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I  needs  must  die  with- 
out you?  I  go  unto  my  death!'"  '  Nay,"  she  cried,  again  weep- 
ing, "but  let  me  rather  die!  Of  what  avail  is  my  life?"  and 
therewith  she  wrung  her  hands.  "  Fare  you  well,  cruel  one!" 
said  the  knight,  with  one  grieved  look  at  her.  "When  my 
mother  shall  come  to  you  and  say, '  Where  is  my  son?'  you  shall 
make  answer,  '  He  lies  dead  in  a  strange  land ,  and  all  for  a 
woman's  sake!'"  Then  while  the  maiden  still  wept  sore,  and 
wrung  her  hands,  the  sad  knight  rode  away. 

Then,  when  a  few  months  were  sped,  came  his  squire,  bearing 
a  lock  of  his  hair  all  steeped  in  his  gore,  and  said,  "  Damsel,  my 
master  bid  me  cut  this  hair  from  his  head  as  he  lay  a-dying,  and 
carry  it  to  you,  and  say,  '  I  lie  dead  in  a  strange  land,  and  all  for 
a  woman's  sake.  When  you  joy  with  the  knight  whom  you 
love,  look  awhiles  on  this  a.nd  think  of  me  '" 


DIANA    CAREK'.  227 

Then  was  the  maiden  sore  grieved,  and  wept  many  tears;  but 
anon  came  her  own  true  love,  and  they  were  wed. 

Thus  briefly  concluded  the  tale  of  the  sad  knight. 

"  Anon  came  her  own  true  love,  and  they  were  wed,"  re- 
peated Hector,  bitterly,  closing  the  book  and  flinging  it  on  the 
table.  A  new  idea  came  to  him  as  he  sat  moodily  contem- 
plating the  dying  embers.  If  life  was  so  grievous  to  him.  why 
should  not  others  be  glad  ?  Involuntarily  crept  in  the  thought 
of  Diana  mistress  here — Diana  happy — Diana  his  brother's  wife, 
whilst  he  lay  dead  and  forgotten,  God  knows  where.  "  Never! 
never!"  he  cried,  between  hi?  teeth,  in  a  paroxysm  of  furious 
jealousy.  All  night  long  the  two  sentences  ring  in  his  ears,  and 
all  the  day  following,  and  the  nights  and  days  afterward.  "  He 
lies  dead  in  a  strange  land,  and  all  for  a  woman's  sake.  But 
anon  came  her  own  true  love  and  they  were  wed." 

A  furious  battle  begins  to  rage  in  his  heart.  Shall  he  throw 
away  the  life  he  hates  so  bitterly,  and  in  throwing  it  away 
secure  Diana's  happiness?  The"  thought  of  her  becoming 
Charlie's  is  utter  agony  to  him;  he  feels  somehow  as  though, 
were  he  even  lying  dead  a  thousand  miles  away,  he  would  know 
it  and  be  tortured  with  jealousy.  But  "  for  her  sake,  for  her 
sake!''  he  goes  on  saying  to  himself;  "  to  make  her  happy!  I 
could  not  live  and  see  her  his,"  he  tells  himself;  "  or  it  would  be 
easy  enough  to  give  him  half  my  income  and  let  him  marry 
her."  But  from  that  thought  his  whole  soul  revolts.  Not  while 
he  lives;  not  while  he  lives.  Then  comes  another  thought.  Sup- 
pose, for  her  sake,  he  slipped  out  of  that  life  which  day  by  day 
was  becoming  more  and  more  unbearable,  and  after  all  his 
brother  did  not  marry  her — did  not  perhaps  care  for  her 't  He 
must  provide  against  that. 

Day  by  day  he  become  more  worn,  more  ghastly- looking,  and 
day  by  day  Lady  Montagu's  anxiety  about  him  took  greater 
proportions.  Christmas  had  gone,  the  new  year  was  here — the 
new  year  that  to  Hector  was  worse,  far  worse  than  blank.  Again 
Lady  Montagu  sent  for  Mr.  Benyon.  In  her  alarm  she  confided 
to  him  a  secret  that  had  always  been  very  carefully  kept  by  the 
family.  Two  generations  back,  one  of  the  then  baronet's  sons 
had  taken  his  life  with  his  own  hand. 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  she  murmurs,  looking  with  fearful  eyes 
into  the  doctor's  face,  "  but  that  story  has  haunted  me  of  late. 
Hector  looks  so  wild  sometimes.  Oh,  Mr.  Benyon!"  (with  terri- 
ble earnestness)  "  you  don't  think " 

"  No,  no,  no!"  he  interrupts  her;  "  no  need  to  worry  yourself 
with  such  thoughts  as  those.  I  am  afraid  I  can't  do  very  much 
for  him,  because  he  won't  mind  what  I  say.  I'll  speak  to  him 
again,  if  you  like,  and  try  to  frighten  liini  a  little  about  himself. 
The  best  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  go  up  to  London  and 

consult  G ;  and,  if  you  could  persuade  him  to  stay  there  a 

little  while,  change  and  cheerful  company  would  do  more  for 
him  than  all  the  physic  that  was  ever  concocted." 

"  Do  see  him!  pray,  pray  do  your  best  to  persuade  him!"  cries 
the  anxious  mother.  "  He  is  in  the  house  now:  and,  if  you  can 
manage  it,  see  me  again  before  you  leave." 


228  DIANA    CAREW. 

Mr.  Benyon,  who  knows  his  way  as  well  about  Alford  as  he 
does  about  his  own  snug  little  house,  goes  to  the  smoking-room, 
and  finds  there  the  person  he  is  in  search  of.  , 

"Well,  Benyon,"  says  Hector,  with  a  hollow  attempt  at 
gayety,  "have  you  come  to  have  another  try  at  the  'mind 
diseased?'  Confession's  good  for  the  soul.  I've  thrown  your 
'  physic  '  to  the  dogs,  and,  if  you  send  me  any  more,  it  will  all  go 
the  same  way — figuratively,  not  literally.  Poor  brutes!  I've  too 
much  regard  for  them!" 

"  I  have  come,  as  I  came  before,"  answers  Benyon,  bethinking 
himself  of  anew  plan,  "  because  your  mother  sent  for  me.  I  can 
tell  you  one  thing:  anxiety  on  your  account  will  soon  make  her 
ill,  and  then  you'll  have  to  forget  yourself  and  nurse  her." 

"Poor  mother!"  answers  Hector;  "what  is  she  afraid  of? 

Does  she  think  I'm  going  into  a  decline,  or  does  she  fancy 

I'll  lay  a  hundred  to  one,"  he  cries,  looking  keenly  at  the  doctor, 
"  she's  been  raking  up  a  little  old  family  story  for  your  benefit; 
eh,  Benyon?" 

Thus  attacked,  the  doctor  feels  a  little  confused. 

"  Women  are  always  nervous,"  he  answers,  evasively,  "  but 
upon  my  life,  you're  enough  to  make  any  one  nervous,  with  your 
long,  cadaverous  face.  Why,  I  thought  you  were  more  of  a 
man." 

"So  my  mother  thinks  of  that,  does  she?"  says  Hector, 
musingly.  "What  a  ridiculous  idea!"  (laughing  harshly). 
"  Fancy  doing  oneself  out  of  twelve  thousand  a  year,  and  all  for 
a  woman's  sake.  Come,  Benyon,  you  don't  think  me  quite  such 
a  fool  as  that  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  don't,"  he  returns  heartily;  "  if  I  did,  I  should  send 
for  a  strait- waistcoat  at  once.  But  at  the  same  time  "  (gravely), 
"  if  the  sanest  man  in  the  world  plays  the  devil  with  his  nerves 
and  constitution,  as  you're  doing,  there's  no  answering  for  the 
consequences.  Come"  (clapping  him  on  the  shoulder),  "I'm 
very  much  in  earnest  just  now,  I  promise  you;  it's  no  use  minc- 
ing matters,  you're  in  a  bad  way,  a  very  bad  way.  I  want  to 
frighten  you — I  only  wish  to  Heaven  I  could!  Pack  your  traps 

and  go  off  to  London  and  see  G ;  look  up  some  of  your  friends, 

and  don't  be  in  any  hurry  to  come  back.  My  advice  is  sincere, 
you  may  depend"  (laughing),  "for  it's  very  much  against  my 
own  interest.  If  you  stop  here,  you'll  have  a  fine  long  illness, 
and  put  I  don't  know  how  much  into  my  pocket." 

"  Very  well,"  Hector  answers,  docilely,  to  the  great  surprise  of 
his  friend.  "  I  dare  say  you're  right.  I'll  be  off  to-morrow;  you 
may  tell  my  mother  so.  No  doubt  she  is  waiting,  God  bless  her! 
to  pounce  upon  you  as  soon  as  you  go  out  of  here.  And  make 
her  mind  easy;  be  sure  you  make  her  mind  easy.  Tell  her  I'm 
as  sane  as  you  are,  and  add  any  little  anecdote  (you  must  know 
lots)  of  men  who  have  gone  rather  to  the  dogs  at  first  for  a 
woman's  sake,  but  who  invariably  came  back.  Good-bye;  it's 
very  kind  and  good-natured  of  you  to  bother  yourself  -so  much 
about  me,  and  this  time,  you  see,  it  has  not  been  in  vain." 

Benyon  shakes  him  by  the  hand  and  wishes  him  a  hearty  God- 


DIANA    CAREW.  229 

speed;  but  he  goes  out  more  puzzled  than  satisfied.  Neverthe- 
less, he  is  able  to  set  Lady  Montagu's  mind  at  rest. 

Hector,  left  to  himself,  sits  for  full  an  hour  absorbed  in  deep- 
est thought.  Then,  with  a  Ion 5  sigh,  as  of  a  man  who  has  at 
last  made  a  difficult  resolve,  he  rises  and  goes  out.  In  turn  he 
visits  the  gardens,  hot-houses,  stables,  kennels,  and  to  every 
man  he  gives  a  pleasant  word,  to  every  animal  a  caress.  It  is  as 
though  he  were  going  on  a  long  journey,  whence  he  might  never 
return,  and  that  melancholy  steals  over  him  which  always  at- 
tends the  thought  that  one  is  doing  something  for  the  last  time, 
even  though  it  be  something  that  we  care  little  for.  At  dinner 
Lady  Montagu  finds  him  brighter  and  more  cheerful  than  he  has 
been  for  a  long  time,  and  thinks  with  inward  congratulation  that 
she  has  done  well  in  sending  for  Benyon. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  my  dear,  that  you  have  decided  upon  seeing 

G "  she  says;  "  he  is  certain  to  do  you  good.  And  be  sure 

you  do  not  hurry  home  on  my  account,  because  you  fancy  I 
shall  be  dull.  Henrietta  and  her  boy  are  coming  to  me  on  Satur- 
day for  a  fortnight,  and  will  not,  I  dare  say,  be  in  any  great 
haste  to  leave.1' 

Hector  glances  wistfully  at  the  sweet,  kind  face  that  beams 
upon  him  with  such  anxious  love,  and  looks  away  again,  lest  the 
sight  of  it  should  unman  him.  Who  knows  ?  after  to-morrow  its 
tenderness  may  never  shine  upon  him  any  more  in  this  world. 
After  lie  has  wished  her  good -night,  he  goes  to  his  room  and 
spends  some  hours  in  looking  over  and  arranging  papers.  .  Then 
he  makes  a  draft  of  a  will.  He  has  some  money  of  his  own,  and 
that  he  leaves  entirely  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  of  Alford. 
When  this  is  finished,  he  fetches  the  old  book  of  chronicles  and 
opens  it  at  the  story  of  the  sad  knight.  With  his  pen  he  draws 
a  line  down  each  margin  of  the  whole  story,  and  under  the  two 
sentences,  "  He  lies  dead  in  a  strange  land,  and  all  for  a  wom- 
an's sake,"  "  But  anon  came  her  own  true  love,  and  they  were 
wed,"  he  scores  two  deep  lines,  and  writes  upon  it,  "  For  my 
sister-in-law,  if  she  be  called  Diana*"  This  done,  he  folds  it  in 
another  sheet,  upon  which  he  writes,  "  For  my  sister-in-law  when 
my  brother  marries.  It  is  my  express  desire  that  it  should  not 
be  opened  before  that  time." 

Next  day  he  bids  farewell  to  his  mother.  He  has  promised 
himself  that  he  will  not  betray  any  emotion  at  parting  from  her, 
but  he  has  a  hard  task  to  master  his  emotion.  A  strong  impulse 
comes  over  him  to  kneel  down  before  her  and  ask  her  blessing; 
but  that  might  save  him  from  himself!  He  controls  himself  with 
so  stern  an  effort  that  it  even  makes  his  leave-taking  seem  cold. 
The  poor  mother,  never  dreaming  what  is  in  his  heart,  wishes 
regretfully  to  herself  that  he  was  more  demonstrative — more 
like  Charlie. 

The  iron  horse  speeds  him  swiftly  on  his  way  to  London:  as  it 
rushes  along  he  takes  note  of  all  the  familiar  landmarks,  and 
bids  them  a  silent  farewell,  as  he  did  to  everything  at  Alford 
yesterday.  His  plans  are  vague  as  yet;  he  intends  going  abroad, 
but  how  and  where  he  leaves  chance  to  decide.  The  following 
day  he  goes  to  consult  the  eminent  physician.  The  eminent 


230  DIANA    CAREW. 

physician  receives  him  with  great  suavity,  that  deepens  into 
seriousness  as  he  asks  certain  questions  and  receives  the  an- 
swers. 

"Your  nervous  system,"  he  tells  Hector,  "is  considerably 
disordered,  very  considerably  disordered.  The  first  thing  that 
is  necessary  is  for  the  mind  to  be  at  rest.  There  must  be  no  men- 
tal disturbance  of  any  kind:  perfect  freedom  from  all  anxiety  i» 
what  you  want — what  you  must  have." 

It  is  very  odd  how  doctors,  who  it  is  to  be  supposed  are  sub- 
ject to  the  cares  and  anxieties  that  beset  other  folk,  will  glibly 
prescribe  repose  to  the  tortured  mind  as  though  it  were  a  tonic 
mixture  that  could  be  made  up  at  the  chemist's. 

"A  moderate  amount  of  gayety,"  the  eminent  physician  con- 
tinues, "  plenty  of  cheerful  society,  horse-exercise,  an  occasional 
visit  to  the  theater  if  the  atmosphere  is  not  too  trying  to  your 
head — in  short,  my  dear  sir,  I  advise  you  for  the  next  few  months 
to  devote  yourself  to  the  study  of  how  you  can  make  life  most 
agreeable.  At  the  same  time,  I  think  I  can  give  you  something 
that  will  soothe  the  stomach  and  nerves,  and  in  a  week  or  ten 
days'  time,  I  hope  to  see  you  a  different  man."  And,  having 
written  out  a  short  prescription,  he  hands  it  to  Hector  and  bids 
him  a  bland  "  Good-day." 

Hector  pockets  the  prescription,  nor  ever  looks  at  it  again.  He 
has  sought  the  great  man's  advice  to  please  his  mother,  calculat- 
ing pretty  well  what  it  would  be.  In  his  case  it  was  as  easy  to 
carry  out  as  though  he  had  recommended  one  of  his  own  farm- 
laborers  to  eat  meat  three  times  a  day  and  wash  it  down  with 
generous  wines. 

His  next  visit  was  to  his  lawyer,  to  get  his  will  drawn  up. 
Then  he  went  to  his  club.  As  chance  would  have  it,  the  first 
man  he  met  was  one  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years,  but  who, 
in  days  gone  by,  had  been  his  greatest  friend.  Hector  laughed, 
and  felt  cheerful — the  first  time  for  many  weeks. 

"I'm  off  to  Naples  in  my  yacht  the  day  after  to-morrow,"  said 
Captain  Baring.  "  I  can't  stand  this  infernal  climate  in  the 
winter.  What  on  earth's  the  good  of  living  in  a  pea-soup  at- 
mosphere, and  having  your  nose  frost-bitten,  when  you  can  bask 
in  glorious  sunshine  among  orange-groves,  have  a  roeebud  for 
every  withered  violet  here,  and  look  at  the  blue  skies  and  seas 
from  sunrise  to  sunset?  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  persuade  you 
to  come  with  me,  old  fellow;  but  I  suppose,  with  all  your  new 
cares  and  responsibilities,  there's  no  chance  of  your  getting  away, 
eh  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  replied  Hector,  seeing  the  opportunity 
he  wanted  unfolding  before  him. 

"  You  look  thundering  bad,  my  dear  fellow,  I  can  tell  you 
that,"  proceeded  the  other,  eagerly.  "  I  never  saw  a  fellow  so 
changed!  A  trip  with  me  would  be  the  thing  of  all  others  to  set 
you  up.  Come,  say  the  word." 

"Very  well,  I  will  go,"  Hector  answered,  coming  to  a  rapid 
decision.  "  Many  thanks  for  the  offer.  1  was  thinking  of  going 
off  abroad  somewhere." 

"  By  Jove!   how  glad  I  am  to  have  stumbled  across  you!" 


DIAXA    CAREW.  231 

cried  Captain  Baring,  heartily.  "We'll  dine  at  Southampton 
to-morrow  night,  and  go  on  board  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

So,  after  a  little  more  talk,  they  part;  the  time  is  short,  and 
each  has  plenty  to  do  before  starting.  There  is  one  tiling  Hec- 
tor dreads  and  shrinks  from  utterly;  it  is  the  meeting  with  his 
brother.  And  yet  it  must  take  place.  There  are  some  words 
that  must  be  said  between  them — words  which  will  perhaps  de- 
cide the  future  of  both.  He  is  on  his  way  to  Colonol  Montagu's 
rooms,  when  he  meets  him  coming  up  the  street. 

"  Hullo,  Hector,  you  up  in  town!"  he  cries;  and  then,  quickly: 
"  By  Jove!  how  bad  you  look!  What  have  you  been  doing  to 
yourself  ?" 

"  I  am  going  abroad  on  Saturday  with  Baling,"  says  Hector, 
not  answering  the  questions  put  to  him.  4i  I  rather  want  to  see 
you  before  I  go.  Shall  I  find  you  to-night  ?" 

"  I  was  going  to  dine  with  Bagot,  but  I  can  put  him  off. 
Where  will  you  dine  ?— at  the  Garrick? — or  shall  we  try  the  new 
restaurant  ?" 

1  Do  you  ever  dine  at  your  own  place  ?" 

•  Oh,  yes.     Gunter  will  send  me  anything  I  want.    Do  you 
particularly  wish  to  dine  there ':'' 
'  I  should  prefer  it." 

'  All  right.     I  suppose  eight  will  do  you  ?" 
'  Any  time  you  like." 

'  I  wonder  what  the  deuce  he  wants  with  me!"  thinks  Colonel 
Montagu,  as  he  goes  on  his  way  up  St.  James'  Street. 

CHAPTER  XL. 

NOT  TOLD  BY  DIA.NA. 

THE  tete-a-tete  dinner  was  not  the  most  cheerful  one  imag- 
inable, though  Colonel  Montagu  did  the  honors  pleasantly,  as  he 
always  did  everything,  and  Hector  would  fain  have  shaken  off 
the  constraint  that  oppressed  him.  He  wanted  to  feel  kindly 
toward  his  brother,  since  it  was,  perhaps,  the  last  time  they 
would  ever  dine  together.  Both  were  glad  when  it  was  over, 
and  they  adjourned  to  the  other  room. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  a  shame  to  smoke  here?"  asked  Hector,  doubt- 
fully, as  Charlie  handed  him  the  box  of  cigars. 

Looking  round  at  the  delicate  satin  furniture,  it  seemed  more 
than  rather  a  shame,  but  Colonel  Montagu  answered,  care- 
lessly: "  It  won't  hurt  once  in  a  way!"  He  buried  himself  in 
one  of  me  inviting  chairs  by  the  fire,  and  motioned  Hector  to 
take  the  other.  It  was  a  comfort  to  both  that  their  cigars  ob- 
viated the  necessity  of  making  conversation;  so  Charlie  drifted 
into  his  usual  pleasant  sense  of  bien-etre  before  the  warm  blaze 
of  the  fire,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  charm  of  beautiful  ob- 
jects, and  Hector  gave  the  sad  and  morbid  fancies  rein  to  which 
he  had  of  late  become  a  slave.  Presently  his  eyes  wandered  to 
his  brother's  handsome,  indolent  face,  and  thence  to  the  costly 
toys  with  which  he  had  been  pleased,  in  careless  luxury,  to 
strew  his  rooms.  Then  he  pictured  him  to  himself  master  at 


233  DIANA    CAREW. 

Alford,  gay,  happy,  surrounded  by  love  and  friendship,  utterly 
forgetful  of  the  brother  who  had  yielded  up  his  birthright  to 
him  and  gone  away  to  die  in  a  foreign  land.  Why  not  ?  It  was 
not  for  his  sake  he  was  relinquishing  a  life  that  only  seemed  fair 
and  enviable  to  the  outside  world,  because  they  knew  nothing 
of  the  supreme  agony  of  the  canker-worm's  tooth  in  the  heart. 

"OGod!"  he  groaned  to  himself,  "what  have  I  done  that 
thou  shouldst  make  this  difference  between  us  ? — that  he  should 
have  all  the  love,  all  the  desirable  things  of  life,  and  I  not  even 
the  husks  ?" 

So  heavy  a  sigh  escaped  him  that  his  brother  looked  up. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  don't  do  that  again,  or 
you  will  blow  all  the  lights  out.  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  You  haven't  got  any  debts  or  anxieties,  you  are  not 
nightmare-ridden  with  the  thought  of  having  to  marry  an  heir- 
ess, why  on  earth  should  you  sigh?" 

"Apropos!"  uttered  Hector;  "  have  you  proposed  to  her  yet '" 

"  What  a  cold-blooded  fellow  you  are!  You  ask  if  the  awful 
and  momentous  question  that  is  to  doom  me  to  a  life  of  wretch- 
edness has  been  put,  as  you  might  ask  if  I  had  ordered  dinner. 
No,  I  have  not  proposed,  and,  upon  my  soul,  I  don't  think  I  shall! 
Old  Adolphus  Fitz-Rex  is  dying  for  her  money,  and,  by  Jove,  he 
may  have  it  for  me!" 

Hector  made  no  reply.  Presently  he  said,  nerving  himself  to 
a  great  effort: 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  something  that  will  very  likely  sur- 
prise you.  Give  me  a  candid  answer  if  you  can:  don't  be  afraid! 
I'm  not  laying  a  pitfall  for  you.  Do  you,  did  you  ever,  care  any- 
thing about  Diana  Carew  ?  If  she  had  had  money,  or  you  had 
been  an  elder  instead  of  a  younger  son,  would  you  ever  have 
thought  of  marrying  her?" 

To  conceal  his  agitation,  Hector  spoke  in  a  hard,  rasping 
voice,  that,  despite  his  assurance  to  the  contrary,  made  Charlie 
suspect  a  snare. 

"  I  have  kept  my  word  to  you  faithfully,"  he  answered,  in 
rather  an  injured  voice.  "  I  avoided  her  studiously  when  she 
was  in  town,  and  at  the  Desboroughs',  where  I  had  no  idea  of 
meeting  her  until  the  day  she  came.  I  never,  by  look  or  word, 
infringed  the  promise  that  you  wrung  from  me  over  our  father's 
death-bed.  And  "  (sighing  as  he  knocked  the  ash  off  his  cigar) 
' '  it  might  have  been  an  easy  enough  task  for  you,  but  I  would 
not  go  through  it  again  to  have  my  debts  paid  twice  over.  You 
may  be  sure  of  one  thing"  (with  unwonted  bitterness).  "  when 
she  is  Lady  Montagu,  you  won't  be  troubled  with  much  of  my 
company  at  Alford." 

"  Then  you  do  care  for  her?"  uttered  Hector,  in  a  deep,  low 
voice. 

"  Care  for  her!"  cried  Charlie,  springing  up  and  striding  down 
the  room.  "  Care  for  her!  if  I  hadn't  been  such  an  infernal  fool 
as  to  make  you  that  promise,  I'd  have  reformed  my  bad  habits 
and  married  her  before  this,  poor  as  I  am!" 

Hector  suppressed  a  sigh.    The  old  sentence  returned  forcibly 


DIANA    CAREW.  233 

to  his  mind:  "  But  <  non  came  her  own  true  love,  and  they  were 
wed." 

It  was  a  most  unusual  thing  to  see  his  indolent  brother  so  ex- 
cited ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  his  sincerity.  Although  it 
was  the  chief  part  of  Hector's  plan  that  he  should  love  and 
marry  Diana,  a  bitter  pang  crossed  his  heart. 

"  I  wonder,"  remarked  the  guardsman,  resuming  his  seat  and 
his  composure,  and  feeling  a  little  bit  ashamed  of  the  ebullition 
— "I  wonder  why  you  amused  yourself  by  trotting  me  out  on 
the  subject?  it  was  not  particularly  magnanimous,  when  you've 
got  all  the  playing-cards  in  your  own  hand." 

"  You  said  when  you  met  me  to-day  that  I  was  looking  bad," 
replied  Hector,  with  apparent  irrelevancy,  "  I  have  heard  that 
remark  ad  nauseam  lately.  Well,  it  is  true  enough.  Heaven 
knows  I  don't  feel  much  better  than  I  look,  and  1  have  a  sort  of 
presentiment  that  I  shall  not  come  back  from  the  journey  I  am 
starting  on  to-morrow." 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Montagu;  "presentiments!  If 
ever  there  was  a  man  above  that  sort  of  tomfoolery,  I  should 
have  thought  it  was  you." 

"  I  have  a  presentiment,"  repeated  Hector,  in  a  deep,  low 
voice,  and  with  a  haggard  glance  at  his  brother,  "that  1  shall 
never  come  back  from  Hits  journey.'" 

"Why,  my  dear  old  fellow,"  cried  Charlie,  kindly.  "I  shall 
begin  to  think  there  is  something  very  wrong  with  you,  if  you 
talk  such  stuff  as  that.  Why,  what  the  deuce  is  there  to  kill 
you  in  a  trumpery  little  voyage  to  Naples  and  back  ?  Baring's 
too  good  a  judge  to  trust  himself  in  a  yacht  he  does  not  know, 
or  I'm  much  mistaken." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  Hector  answered,  with  a  troubled  glance  into 
the  fire. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  Do  you  translate  Vede  Napoli  e  poi  morir 
into  an  obligation  to  die  as  soon  as  you  have  set  eyes  on  it  ?  What 
are  you  afraid  of  ?  Roman  fever,  or  brigands,  or  of  being  en- 
gulfed by  a  new  eruption  of  Vesuvius?" 

"Never  mind,"  answered  Hector,  wearily,  "let  me  get  to 
what  I  want  to  say.  Suppose  I  do  not  retuni,  will  you  give  me 
your  word  of  honor  to  marry  Diana  Carew ':" 

Charlie  looked  at  his  brother  with  serious  anxiety.  He  began 
to  think  his  mind  was  unhinged,  and  said  to  himself  it  might  be 

a  good  plan  to  go  to  G next  morning  and  hear  what  really 

was  the  matter  with  him. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  rising,  and  giving  Hector  a  friendly  shake  of 
the  shoulder,  "  pull  yourself  together,  and  don't  give  way  to  this 
sort  of  humbug.  You  don't  look  very  brilliant  certainly;  but  I 
don't  see  anything  to  alarm  yourself  about.  A  couple  of  days  at 
sea  will  set  you  on  your  legs  again.  Come,  cheer  up!  this  is  un- 
like your  usual  form." 

Hector  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  said,  in  a  calm, 
quiet  voice  that  was  habitual  to  him: 

"Talking  of  it  won't  kill  me.  I  may  cjme  back,  or  I  may 
not;  and  if  I  do  not,  I  want  to  be  sure  that  Diana  Carew  will  be 
Lady  Montagu." 


S84  DIANA    CAREW. 

"  What  on  earth  am  I  to  understand  ?"  asked  Colonel  Montagu, 
looking  thoroughly  mystified.  "  First  by  threats  and  promises 
you  wring  from  me  an  engagement  neither  by  look  nor  word  to 
endeavor  to  gain  her  affection,  and  now  you  urge  me  under  a\> 
surdly  hypothetical  conditions  to  marry  her.  If  you  are  in  ear- 
nest,  why  not  say  at  once,  '  Go  and  marry  her,  if  she  will  have 
you  ?'  You  shall  not  have  to  speak  twice,  I  promise  you." 

'•  No,  no!"  cried  Hector,  harshly.  "You  are  still  bound  by 
your  promise.  My  death  alone  can  release  you.  Well,  I  may  be 
mad — think  so  if  you  please,  but  humor  me;  tell  me  that  if  I  do 
not  return  you  will  marry  her." 

"  All  right;  1  promise,"  answered  Colonel  Montagu,  thinking 
[t  better  to  humor  him. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  on  it." 

Charlie  held  out  his  hand.  Hector  grasped  it  with  a  feverish 
one  that  convinced  his  brother  still  more  forcibly  there  was 
something  wrong. 

"  One  thing  more  If  I  don't  come  back,  look  after  the  poor 
at  home,  and  do  something  for  them.  Hayter  will  show  you  the 
plans  of  all  I  intended  to  do;  and  she  knows,  she  will  see  to  it  if 
you  let  her  have  the  money.  Remember,  I  charge  that  upon 
you." 

Colonel  Montagu  felt  quite  cut  up  about  his  brother.  He  did 
not  believe  for  an  instant  in  the  fulfillment  of  his  presentiment, 
and  he  most  certainly  did  not  desire  it,  for  he  was  eminently 
kind-hearted  and  not  a  bit  envious.  He  was  really  shocked  to 
see  such  unusual  weakness  in  his  stern,  self-contained  brother, 

and  resolved  not  only  to  see  G ,  but  to  write  to  Baring  about 

him. 

"  It  can't  hurt  you  to  promise  me  those  two  things,"  said 
Hector,  eagerly,  "  and  I  shall  go  away  more  satisfied." 

"  All  right,  then,"  answered  Charlie,  with  an  attempt  at  gay- 
ety;  "  I  promise  both." 

Hector  rose  to  go. 

"  I'll  walk  with  you  as  far  as  Limmer's."  volunteered  his 
brother,  feeling  rather  uncomfortable  about  him. 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  answered  Hector;  then,  forcing  a  smile, 
"  you  need  have  no  doubt  as  to  my  sanity.  I  am  perfectly  well 
able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"  said  Charlie,  as  they  were  part- 
ing, feeling  an  unwonted  regret  at  bidding  his  brother  good- 
bye. "  I'll  run  down  to  Southampton  with  you,  if  you  like." 

"I  have  a  hundred  things  to  do;  it's  no  use  making  any  ap- 
pointment, and  as  for  going  down  to  Southampton,  it's  not  to  be 
thought  of." 

"  Well,  good-bye  if  I  don't  see  you  again.  A  pleasant  trip, 
and  get  rid  of  your  blue  devils  before  you  come  back." 

"  Good-bye."    And  the  brothers  clasped  hands  very  kindly. 

Colonel  Montagu  walked  home  thoughtfully.  For  a  wonder, 
he  neither  went  to  the  club  nor  yet  elsewhere,  but  betook  himself 
straight  to  his  own  rooms,  lighted  another  cigar,  and  mused 
ever  the  strange  events  of  the  evening. 

"  Hector's  in  a  deuced  bad  wray-^poor  fellow  1    I  never  saw  a 


DIANA    CAREW.  235 

man  so  altered.  I  suppose  it's  all  about  her:  he  has  asked  her 
again  and  she  won't  have  him.  And  yet  he  is  the  very  last  man 
in  the  world  I  should  have  expected  to  see  so  cut  up  about  a 
woman.  I  can  understand  a  boy  like  Seldon  taking  it  badly,  but 
not  a  cool-headed,  unimpulsive  fellow  like  Hector.  It  can't  be 
all  that.  I've  heard  of  men  getting  frightful  fits  of  the  blues 
after  coming  suddenly  into  a  lot  of  money.  I  don't  think  it 
would  affect  me  that  way.  Of  course  nothing  u'ill  happen:  pre- 
sentiments are  the  greatest  rot  in  the  world;  not  one  in  ten  thou- 
sand ever  conies  true.  When  I  rode  that  steeple-chase  three 
years  ago,  I  had  a  presentiment  I  should  break  my  neck;  and 
nothing  came  of  it;  my  nerves  were  shaky  at  the  time;  I  had 
been  drinking  rather  hard  just  before.  That  reminds  me.  I 
never  saw  Hector  drink  so  much  in  my  life  at  one  sitting  as  he 
did  to-night — gulped  it  down,  too,  as  if  he  did  not  care  for  it; 
and  there  is  no  better  in  the  cellars  at  home.  I'm  awfully  glad 
he  is  going  for  that  cruise;  nothing  like  it  for  bracing  the  nerves; 
he'll  be  back  in  a  couple  of  months  quite  himself  again." 

Then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Diana. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  she  does  care  for  me,  or 
whether  it's  only  my  own  stupid  conceit  that  makes  me  fancy 
so  ?  I  know  she  did  at  Alford  that  golden  day "  (sighing). 
"What  an  infernal  scoundrel  I  was!  But  I  did  not  really  care 
for  her  then  as  I  did  here,  as  I  did  at  the  Desboroughs'.  How 
utterly  glad  I  was  when  she  refused  Seldon! — though,  poor  lad! 
I  could  not  help  feeling  sorry  for  him.  And  how  I  hated  poor 
old  Jack  when  she  became  friendly  with  him !  I  would  not  go 
through  that  cursed  time  again  for  anything  in  the  world.  How 
I  endured  it  I  don't  know.  To  see  her  grieved,  indignant  face, 
and  to  have  to  avoid  her,  and  seem  to  seek  the  society  of  that 
plain,  common  girl!  Marry  her  !  Not  to  save  going  through  the 
bankruptcy  court  to-niorrow.  Pah!"  (with  a  gesture  of  intensest 
disgust).  "  If  I  only  had  the  chance  of  winning  Diana  now! 
How  she  must  despise  me!  What  should  she  feel  but  contempt 
for  me  ?  No  more  than  I  do  for  myself,  I'll  answer.  No,  I  know 
how  it  will  be;  Hector  has  only  got  a  morbid  fancy,  which  he 
does  not  really  believe  in  himself,  else  he  would  say,  '  Go  and 
•win  her  now  if  you  can.'  He  will  come  back  all  right  again, 
and  in  the  end  she  will  have  him.  I  have  a  presentiment  of 
that;  I  had  all  along.  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  was  not  to  take  her 
when  I  could  have  had  her!  I've  not  got  so  much  pleasure  out 
of  life  lately;  the  same  old  round  palls  upon  one  after  a  time, 
when  one  has  lost  the  power  of  caring  for  fresh  faces,  as  I  have" 
(sighing)  "  since  I  knew  her.  I  wonder  what  witchery  there  is 
about  her  that  makes  men  so  desperately  bad  about  losing  her  ? 
She  does  not  set  herself  up  as  being  better  than  other  women, 
and  yet  there  is  something  pure  and  sweet  about  her  one  can't 
help  reverencing.  Even  that  wicked  profligate,  old  Jack,  con- 
fessed that  she  made  him  want  to  be  better.  I  suppose  I  must 
leave  it  now  until  Hector  comes  back;  and  then,  if  she  won't 
have  him " 

Here  the  entrance  of  a  friend  cut  short  his  soliloquy.     The  se* 
ond  morning  after,  Hector  was  standing  on  tie  varbjt'R  deck, 


236  DIANA     CAREW. 

taking  a  silent  farewell  of  the  country  he  never  meant  to  see 
again.  The  voyage  did  him  good  in  one  way,  but  his  mind  grew 
steadily  worse;  the  monotony,  the  confinement  to  a  narrow 
space,  became  unbearable.  His  one  idea  had  been  to  put  a  great 
distance  between  himself  and  Diana;  and,  now  that  every  hour 
took  him  further  away  from  her,  he  was  filled  with  an  insane 
longing  to  see  her  once  again.  Anything  would  have  been  bet- 
ter than  this!  Why  had  he  not  been  content  with  her  friend- 
ship ?— only  to  see  her  sometimes,  to  hear  her  sweet  voice  speak- 
ing kindly  to  him,  to  meet  the  friendly  glance  of  her  beautiful 
eyes — surely  that  would  have  been  some  comfort  to  his  misery, 
even  though  she  would  never  consent  to  be  his.  Sometimes  he 
had  a  wild  thought  that  the  moment  they  reached  Naples  he 
would  travel  back  overland  as  fast  as  steam  and  horses  could 
take  him,  and  get  back  only  just  to  see  her  once  again.  But  he 
gave  up  that  idea  before  he  set  foot  on  shore. 

The  day  after  they  arrived  at  Naples,  and  the  four  following 
ones,  there  was  a  bitter  northeast  wind — colder,  more  piercing, 
than  any  he  had  ever  encountered  in  his  own  country. 

"Are  these  your  sunny  climes?"  he  laughed  grimly  to  his 
friend.  "Of  the  two,  I  certainly  prefer  an  east  wind  in  Eng- 
land; at  all  events,  we  know  how  to  keep  it  outside  the  house." 

"Too  infernal!"  answers  the  other,  disgustedly,  with  chatter- 
ing teeth.  "  Upon  my  life,  1  wouldn't  have  believed  it  if  any 
one  else  had  told  me  it  of  Naples." 

They  drove  to  Pompeii  in  an  open  carriage,  in  whirlwinds  of 
dust.  Hector  was  glad  to  do  anything  rather  than  remain  quiet, 
but  he  was  disappointed  in  the  place:  the  houses  could  not  have 
been  much  bigger  than  doll's  houses,  he  thought,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  inspire  him  with  any  ideas  of  bygone  luxury  or 
splendor.  Perhaps  he  was  not  in  the  humor  to  be  pleased  or 
surprised  by  anything.  He  would  have  liked  to  see  Vesuvius 
vomiting  flames  and  stones;  but  it  lay  tranquil,  with  one  tiny 
smoke-wreath  that  looked  nothing  but  a  little  fleecy  cloud  on  its 
breast.  Life  seemed  more  abhorrent  to  him  here,  in  the  cold, 
among  the  squalor,  dirt,  and  wretchedness  of  Naples,  than  even 
it  had  done  at  Alford;  he  wished  a  thousand  times  he  had  not 
left  home.  Why  not  go  back  now,  he  thought,  sometimes,  and, 
forcing  himself  to  forget  Diana,  lead  a  life  of  usefulness?  He 
had  come  here  to  die;  yet  how  should  he  die  so  as  to  leave  no 
suspicion  that  he  had  died  by  his  own  hand  ?  There  was  only 
one  person  in  the  world  he  wished  to  be  aware  that  he  went  out 
of  life  willingly;  that  was  the  one  for  whose  sake  he  meant  to 
take  the  journey  whence  there  is  no  return. 

If  any  one  had  told  him  his  own  story  a  year  ago,  told  it  of 
some  other  man,  he  would  have  given  his  verdict  at  once:  "The 
man  was  mad."  But  it  never  occurred  to  him  now  that  there 
•was  any  madness  in  what  he  contemplated.  What  is  madness? 
The  upsetting  of  the  mental  balance,  perhaps  on  one  subject 
alone;  the  loss  of  the  power  to  look  at  things  (one  thing,  per- 
haps) as  the  rest  of  the  world  looks  at  them.  There  was  no  cow- 
ardice in  the  act  he  intended,  he  argued  to  himself;  he  was  not 
going  to  shake  off  life  simply  because  he  could  not  face  the 


DIANA     CAREW.  237 

pain  of  it,  but  for  her  sake,  that  she  might  be  happy  in  the 
future.  He  did  not  tell  himself  that  he  had  not  courage  to  see 
her  happy  with  another  man,  that  the  only  thing  which  could 
reconcile  him  to  her  happiness  with  another  was  that  when  it 
came  he  would  be 

u  Out  of  the  multitude  of  things, 
Under  the  dust,  beneath  the  grass, 
Deep  in  dim  death,  where  no  thought  stiiigf, 
No  record  clings. 
No  memory  more  of  love  or  hate, 
No  trouble,  nothing  that  aspires. 
No  sleepless  labor  thwarting  fate, 
And  thwarted;  where  no  travail  tires, 
Where  no  faith  fires." 

The  cold  winds  had  passed  away;  one  could  understand  now 
the  meaning  of  Italian  skies  and  seas;  the  flower-children  were 
streaming  about  the  Chiaia,  and  choice  bouquets  were  offered 
right  and  left  to  the  passer-by  at  fabulously  small  sums  accord- 
ing to  the  English  ideas,  taking  into  consideration  the  time  of 
year  and  the  beauty  of  the  flowers.  They  were  going  a  trip 
along  the  coast  this  lovely  morning;  there  was  a  fresh  breeze, 
although  it  was  not  hot  enough  for  the  dirty  ill-clad  laz- 
zaroni  to  be  lying  about  basking  in  the  sun.  Hector  felt  a 
shade  less  miserable  this  morning;  he  was  not  thinking  of 
death;  there  was  something  in  the  warmth,  coming  after  the 
bitter  cold,  in  the  blue  dancing  waters,  the  azure  skies,  the 
scent  and  sight  of  lovely  flowers,  that  made  even  bare  life  an 
almost  pleasant  fact.  His  friend,  who  had  been  sorely  puzzled 
and  pained  about  him,  remarked  the  change  with"  genuine 
pleasure. 

"Come,  old  fellow!"  he  cried,  heartily,  "I  am  glad  to  see 
you  have  shaken  off  the  blues  at  last.  Thrown  'em  to  the  sea 
and  the  sky,  eh  'f  And  he  laughed  cheerily  at  his  own  little 
joke. 

The  schooner  cut  smartly  through  the  waves,  with  the  wind 
in  her  favor.  Captain  Baring  had  gone  below.  Hector  was  on 
deck,  looking  through  a  glass  at  the  lessening  town.  Suddenly 
he  heard  a  cry  and  a  splash.  Rushing  to  the  side,  he  saw  the 
cabin-boy  beating  the  water  with  his  hands  and  shrieking  for 
help.  In  a  second  he  had  torn  off  his  outer  clothes,  and,  shout- 
ing "Man  overboard!"  jumped  into  the  sea.  He  had  always 
been  a  good  swimmer,  and  fond  of  it,  from  his  Eton  days,  and 
he  knew  the  lad  could  swim  but  little,  not  enough  even  to 
keep  up  until  the  boat  came  to  his  rescue.  The  schooner  was 
going  such  a  pace  that  even  before  the  boat  could  be  low- 
ered she  would  be  a  good  way  off.  As  usual  in  such  cases,  there 
was  some  hitch  in  getting  it  down,  and  before  the  men  were 
in  it  she  was  nearly  half  a  mile  off,  and  the  wind  dead  against 
them. 

"  Don't  catch  hold  of  me,  and  I'll  save  you!"  shouted  Hector 
to  the  boy,  as  he  swam  up  to  him.  "  Keep  going  as  long  as  you 
can,  and  when  you're  tired  I'll  hold  you  up.  Don't  lose  your 
head;  there's  no  danger." 


238  DIANA     GAREW. 

At  this  moment  that  death  was  so  near  him,  Hector  never 
thought  of  it;  he  was  battling  for  life  with  the  instinct  of  a 
strong  man;  he  meant  to  save  the  boy  and  himself,  too.  It  was 
hard  work,  swimming  with  one  arm  and  holding  the  terrified, 
exhausted  lad  with  the  other;  the  minutes  whilst  the  men  in  the 
boat  were  straining  every  nerve  to  get  to  them  seemed  hours. 
They  are  coming  at  last,  thank  God!  He  cannot  hold  out  much 
longer.  Now  they  are  within  four  boats'-lengths.  A  sudden, 
deadly  agnoy  seizes  him;  he  leaves  go  the  lad  with  a  great  cry  of 
anguish.  When  the  boat  comes  up,  there  is  only  the  lad  strug- 
gling alone  in  the  water.  Hector  is  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The 
men  look  aU  around,  and  then  in  each  other's  faces,  with  a  stony 
horror.  At  last  one  uncloses  his  lips. 

"  Cramp,"  he  says  in  a  low  voice.  "  My  youngest  brother 
went  like  that.'' 

And  so  Hector,  with  the  strange  irony  of  Fate,  went  out  of 
life  fighting  his  hardest  to  keep  it,  when  all  these  days  and  weeks 
past  he  had  been  longing  for  death  and  not  knowing  how  or 
where  to  find  it.  Yet  surely  Fate  was  kind;  for,  if  needs  he 
must  die,  was  it  not  better  to  pass  out  of  life  gallantly  rescuing 
one  who  loved  and  clung  to  it,  and  with  no  stain  on  his  name  or 
on  his  own  soul?  And  though  he  "  died  in  a  foreign  land,"  and 
remotely  it  might  be  said  "  for  a  woman's  sake,"  since  but  for 
her  he  would  not  have  come  there,  he  died  actually  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  friendless  lad,  who  without  his  aid  would  have  been 
sucked  down  by  the  blue  cruel  waters.  And  surely  there  is  no 
nobler  epitaph  can  be  writ  over  a  man's  grave,  be  it  rudely 
carved  on  perishable  wood  or  graven  in  letters  of  gold  upon 
stately  marble,  than  this:  "  He  gave  his  life  for  another." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 
DIANA'S   STORY. 

IT  is  a  bright  day  in  February;  if  it  were  not  for  the  skeleton-like 
appearance  of  the  trees,  whose  bare  branches  force  themselves 
unpleasantly  upon  the  eye,  one  might  fancy  it  May.  The  woo- 
ing of  the  joyous  birds  before  their  St.  Valentine  is  sweetly 
noisy;  they  are  intensely  glad  of  Winter's  death,  and  are  hold- 
ing a  spirited  wake  over  him.  Do  not  be  too  sure  that  he  is 
gone,  you  merry  little  souls;  there's  many  a  nipping  night  and 
day  too,  in  store  for  you  before  your  friend  the  summer  shines 
the  frost  away.  It  has  been  a  happy  winter — happy  as  life  ever 
can  be,  I  think  to  myself. 

Curly  has  quite  recovered,  and  we  have  all,  papa  included, 
spent  a  delightful  week  at  Warrington,  where,  at  our  especial 
request,  there  was  no  party — only  just  the  Fanes.  And  then 
they  (the  Fanes)  came  to  us  for  a  week,  for  now  we  have  come 
into  our  money  we  are  able  to  entertain  a  little — in  a  very  small 
way,  of  course.  We  have,  what  I  believe  people  who  are  poor 
generally  have,  and  what  the  rich  so  often  lack,  the  sincere, 
hearty  desire  to  make  our  friends  happy  and  comfortable.  We 
poor  people  know  that  it  all  depends  upon  us  whether  our  guests 
enjoy  their  visit,  and  the  rich  are  too  apt  to  trust  to  their  ad- 


DIANA    CAREW.  239 

ventitious  circumstances  and  to  make  no  further  effort.  We 
have  an  extra  in-door  servant,  on  the  strength  of  our  new 
wealth,  and  a  real  groom,  who  does  not  help  in  the  garden,  nor 
do  anything  apart  from  his  own  domain,  except  wait  at  dinner 
when  we  have  visitors.  For  we  have  two  saddle-horses  now, 
and  Curly  and  papa,  or  Curly  and  I,  ride  every  day.  Papa  is  a 
different  being;  he  is  quite  bright  and  cheerful,  and  when  he  is 
out  with  us  Curly  and  I  are  tremendously  proud  of  him;  we 
never  see  any  one  else  so  distinguished-looking  or  who  talks  so 
well. 

Money  is  a  very  pleasant  thing.  I  know  we  find  ours  so.  It 
is  a  real  delight  to  go  into  a  poor  cottage  now,  knowing  that 
where  help  is  wanted  one  can  give  it,  instead  of  coming  out 
heart-sick  and  heart-sore  because  one  has  so  little  to  bestow  but 
one's  exceeding  sympathy.  I  wonder  the  rich  do  not  oftener 
treat  themselves  to  the  pleasure  of  giving.  I  don't  mean  by 
sending  checks  to  charities,  but  by  going  among  the  poor,  giving 
the  gifts  with  their  own  hands,  and  seeing  for  themselves  the 
immense  happiness  it  causes.  How  it  would  expand  their 
hearts,  and  prevent  them  getting  choked  up  with  selfishness! 
There  is  no  pleasure  in  this  world  like  giving,  of  that  I  am  quite 
sure;  and  it  is  a  pleasure  with  which  many  people  are  very 
chary  of  indulging  themselves. 

I  have  forbidden  myself  to  think  about  my  love  since  Septem- 
ber, when  its  utter  hopelessness  was  so  bitterly  proved  to  me.  I 
cannot  help  remembering  how  dearly  I  have  loved  Colonel  Mon- 
tagu, and  right  well  I  know  that  I  shall  never  again  love  mortal 
man  with  the  same  love  wherewith  I  have  loved  him.  Some- 
times, too,  a  troubled  thought  about  Hector  has  crept  over  me. 
I  have  fancied  that  I  might  have  been  kinder,  showed  more 
feeling  for  him;  and  yet  I  could  never  realize  that  he  was  capa- 
ble of  suffering  much  for  love's  sake.  Once  Mr.  Warrington 
said  at  dinner: 

"  I  never  saw  a  fellow  so  changed  as  Montagu.  He  looks  so 
pale  and  fine-drawn,  and  rides  as  if  he  had  the  devil  behind 
him." 

Looking  up  at  the  moment,  I  catch  papa's  eye  fixed  earnestly 
upon  me,  and  the  color  mounts  to  my  cheek,  and  a  guilty  feel- 
ing creeps  over  me. 

This  February  morning  I  am  standing  at  the  open  window, 
and  the  pug,  with  many  seductive  devices,  is  entreating  me  to  go 
out.  Anon  she  pulls  me  by  the  dress,  or  jumping  up,  catches 
a  finger  playfully  in  her  mouth,  then  whines  and  scratches,  lays 
her  head  on  one  side,  and  says  with  her  eyes,  as  plainly  as  any 
human  being  could  say  it  with  his  tongue,  "  Dear  little  mistress, 
do,  do  come  out!"  So  presently,  being  rather  a  slave  to  her,  I 
pronounce  the  magic  words,  "  Come  along,  dogs!"  with  which 
she  knows  I  never  deceive  her,  and  with  one  bound  she  is  out  of 
the  house  and  down  the  gravel  walk.  Papa  is  coming  up  it, 
and  she  wriggles  her  body  fascinatingly  at  him  by  way  of  salu- 
tation. Contrary  to  his  usual  habit,  lie  does  not  stop  to  talk  to 
her  in  friendly  dog-language,  but  comes  straight  toward  me. 


240  DIANA    CAEEW. 

In  a  moment  I  divine  by  his  face  that  there  is  something 
wrong. 

"  What  is  it?"  I  cry,  before  he  has  time  to  unclose  his  lips. 

"  I  have  just  heard  some  very  bad  news,"  he  answers. 

"  Curly!"  I  gasp,  turning  white  to  the  lips.  Why  do  one's 
terrors  always  run  upon  those  one  loves  best  ? 

"No,  no,  thank  God!  nothing  that  concerns  him.  Poor  Sir 
Hector  Montagu  has  lieen  drowned  in  the  Bay  of  Naples.  I  did 
not  even  know  he  was  abroad." 

A  chill  creeps  over  me— a  great  sorrowful  pity,  that  as  yet 
finds  no  words. 

"  Poor  fellow!  he  died  saving  the  life  of  one  of  the  yacht's 
crew,  I  hear,"  continues  papa. 

Mechanically  I  turn  and  go  toward  the  house,  he  ^following 
me.  I  feel  horribly  shocked  by  this  news,  shocked  and  remorse- 
ful as  though  in  some  measure  I  were  guilty  of  his  death.  In  a 
moment  everything  comes  back  to  me — his  tenderness  toward 
his  mother,  his  kindness  to  me,  his  goodness  to  the  poor;  what 
will  become  of  them  ?  And  then  involuntarily  my  thoughts 
turn  to  his  successor. 

"  Poor  fellow!"  utters  papa,  softly. 

Poor  fellow!  echoes  my  heart,  and  the  tears  rain  down  my 
face. 

"  What  will  the  poor  people  do?"  I  say,  speaking  my  thoughts 
aloud. 

"  I  hear  they  take  it  terribly  to  heart,"  answers  papa.  "He 
was  such  a  good  fellow,  and  they  looked  to  his  doing  so  much 
for  them.  His  brother,  I  fear,  is  a  very  different  sort  of  man." 

My  father's  unconscious  words  stab  me  to  the  quick,  all  the 
more,  perhaps,  because  of  the  truth  underlying  them. 

My  first  impulse  is  to  write  to  Lady  Montagu!  but  when  I  take 
pen  in  hand  a  strange  diffidence  comes  over  me.  She  must  know 
about  his  coming  over  here,  for  she  has  never  written  to  me 
since.  If  I  was  the  cause,  the  unintentional  cause,  God  knows, 
of  his  going  abroad,  will  she  lay  his  death  at  my  door  ?  The 
very  thought  makes  me  shrink  with  pain  and  self-reproach.  Yet 
what  could  I  do  ?  Must  a  woman  not  dare  to  refuse  a  man  she 
cannot  love,  lest  some  evil  chance  should  befall  him  for  which 
she  must  evermore  afterward  reproach  hersslf  ?  I  sit  down  to 
my  painful  task,  and,  as  best  I  may,  pour  out  my  genuine  grief 
and  sympathy,  with  all  my  respect  and  admiration  for  her  dead 
son's  goodness.  Many  a  tear  blots  the  paper  as  I  write;  so  grieved 
am  I,  that  could  it  bring  him  back  again,  I  think  I  would  give 
him  hand  and  heart,  too,  ungrudgingly. 

I  do  not  expect  an  answer,  nor  does  any  come.  Despite  our 
anxiety,  we  hear  nothing  from  Alford  until  one  day,  a  month 
later,  Colonel  Fane  comes  over.  Claire  has  been  with  Lady 
Montagu  ever  since.  Her  grief  for  her  son  was  terrible  to  wit- 
ness, she  wrote.  As  for  Sir  Charles  (Sir  Charles!  I  cannot  recog- 
nize him  by  that  name),  he  is  most  dreadfully  cut  up;  she  would 
never  have  given  him  credit  for  such  deep  feeling.  He  started 
at  once  for  Naples,  to  bring  his  brother's  body  home,  but  the  blue 
gea had  never  "given  up  her  dead."  When  he  returned,  he  was 


DIANA    CAREW.  241 

in  wretched  spirits.  The  only  thing  he  took  the  least  interest  in 
was  looking  over  Hector's  plans  of  improvement  for  the  poor, 
and  giving  orders  for  their  being  carried  into  execution.  It  was 
the  saddest  house  she  had  ever  been  in.  All  this  Colonel  Fane 
told  us.  Poor  Claire!  I  thought  of  her  pain,  too;  her  grief  for 
the  man  she  had  loved  all  her  life  through — grief  the  harder  to 
bear,  since  it  could  not  be  openly  avowed  save  as  a  sorrow  for  a 
friend.  There  was  one  question  I  longed  to  put,  yet  dared  not. 
Was  he  engaged  to  the  heiress  ? 

Ever  since  September  have  I  been  haunted  by  the  fear  of  hear- 
ing the  news  which,  far  apart  as  we  already  are,  would  make 
the  gulf  quite  impassable.  And  so  the  days  crawl  on,  and  I  try 
with  all  my  might  to  shut  the  thought  of  him  out  of  my  heart— 
the  thought  that  he  is  within  a  few  miles  of  me;  that  he  might 
so  easily,  just  for  old  friendship's  sake,  ride  over  and  see  me. 
Colonel  Fane  comes  again;  this  time  he  tells  us  that  Lady  Mon- 
tagu and  Sir  Charles  are  both  going  away  from  the  Court  for 
some  months.  My  heart  sinks  within  me.  Why  should  it,  since 
I  knew  he  could  never  be  anything  to  me  ? 

May  has  come  round  again— May,  with  her  lavish  fullness  of 
life,  so  great  a  part  of  which  must  never  come  to  fruition,  but 
die  before  the  summer  sun  shines  upon  it.  Q  nature!  why  this 
waste  of  life  and  death  ?  why  this  heedless  neglect  of  the  chil- 
dren thou  bringest  forth? 

I  am  on  my  way  to  the  village,  to  sit  an  hour  with  a  girl  who 
is  dying  of  decline.  Papa  has  gone  to  spend  the  day  with  the 
Fanes;  the  blacksmith  has  lamed  my  horse  in  shoeing,  or  I  was 
to  have  gone,  too.  I  am  walking  along  the  lane  which  skirts  our 
park,  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  in  which  is  every  bright  and 
tender  shade  of  spring  green.  In  the  distance  a  horseman  is 
coming  toward  me.  As  I  first  catch  sight  of  him,  I  think  it  is 
papa  returning,  but  as  he  comes  nearer,  my  heart  gives  a  great 
throb,  half  of  pleasure,  half  pain:  right  well  I  know  now  to  whom 
that  gracious  form  belongs. 

Captain — Colonel — nay,  Sir  Charles  Montagu  draws  rein  as  he 
comes  up  to  me.  He  is  handsomer  than  ever,  though  he  looks 
so  pale  and  careworn;  but  perhaps  he  only  seems  so  to  me  be- 
cause my  eyes  have  ached  so  long  for  the  sight  of  him.  Dis- 
mounting, he  extends  his  hand,  into  which  I  put  my  tremulous 
one.  I  dare  hardly  look  at  him,  lest  my  tell-tale  eyes  should  be- 
tray to  him  how  unutterably  glad  I  am  to  see  him  again.  Even 
he,  so  self-possessed  from  long  habit  and  contact  with  the  world, 
seems  a  shade  embarrassed  when  our  first  commonplace  greeting 
is  over. 

"  How  is  Lady  Montagu?"  I  ask,  hurriedly, 

"  Poor  mother!"  he  answers;  "she  is  quite  broken  down.  I 
am  going  to  get  her  away  from  Alford  as  soon  as  I  can.  She 
will  nevet  be  any  better  so  long  as  she  is  there.  And  I "  (with 
energy)—"!  perfectly  loathe  the  place.  I  was  on  my  way  to 
Carew  Court,'  he  adds,  after  a  pause,  "  may  I  go  on  with  you, 
or  will  it  be  taking  you  out  of  the  way  i" 

He  leads  his  horse,  and  we  walk  along  together  under  the 
green  branches.  Their  leaves  are  small  and  young  yet,  and  the 


243  DIANA    CAREW. 

gold  sunshine  floods  them  through  and  under  and  over.  It  is  a 
rare  May  morning,  such  a  one  as  he  and  I  pleased  ourselves  by 
calling  golden  once — a  long  time  ago.  Does  he  remember  it  ? 
He  gives  no  sign.  Why  does  the  first  line  of  the  second  verse 
haunt  me  all  the  way  as  we  walk  side  by  side  to  the  house: 

"  Ah,  but  the  year  brought  changes  after?" 

Has  not  this  year  been  fruitful  of  changes?  Has  there  not 
been  "  care  on  the  lips  that  curved  with  laughter,'"  and  tears — ay, 
bitter  ones — in  the  eyes  whether  "radiant"  or  no?  We  do  not 
say  very  much  on  the  way  home,  nor  until  the  groom  has  taken 
his  horse  and  we  are  in  the  house.  How  many  a  time  have  I 
pictured  him  here — pictured  myself  inordinately  happy  at  his 
presence!  and  yet  to-day  I  feel  constrained,  weighed  upon,  ho 
does,  too,  I  think.  The  May  sun  shines  full  into  the  room,  ex- 
posing mercilessly  the  threadbare  state  of  the  carpet,  the  faded 
hues  of  the  curtains.  As  my  thoughts  travel  back  to  the  costly 
perfection  of  his  rooms,  I  feel  for  a  moment  ashamed  of  the  evi- 
dences of  our  poverty.  Why  should  I?  He  knows — has  always 
known — we  are  poor. 

He  conies  and  sits  down  by  me  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  have  been  coming  here  ever  so  many  times,"  he  utters,  in 
a  low  voice,  turning  his  eyes  full  on  my  face,  "  only  I  could  noD 
pluck  up  heart.  It  seems  horrible  to  think  of  being  happy  when 
Hector,  poor  fellow " 

He  breaks  off  without  finishing  the  sentence. 

What  does  he  mean  ?  My  heart  flutters  and  trembles  within 
me,  the  color  shifts  uneasily  in  my  face,  my  eyes  are  dropped 
away  from  him.  Oh,  kind  Heaven!  let  me  not  mistake  him^ 
let  me  not  imagine  more  meaning  underlying  his  words  than  he 
would  have  me!  I  feel  him  take  my  hand,  his  other  arm  is 
thrown  round  me,  his  lips  are  on  mine,  and  my  eyes  close  for 
one  intense  moment. 

"  To  feel  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again." 

Ah!  is  not  all  my  sorrow,  all  my  pain,  wiped  out,  paid,  more 
than  paid,  in  that  one  short  supreme  moment  of  time? 

"Darling,"  he  whispers,  "do  you  think  all  this  time  that  I 
must  have  seemed  such  a  despicable  brute  in  your  eyes,  I 
haven't  loved  and  longed  for  you  ?" 

I  have  no  answer  for  him  but  tears — tears,  foolish  tears — the 
symbol  of  sorrow,  but  of  great  joy  too.  And  mine  are  all  for 

{"oy.  Where  is  my  pride  ?  what  has  become  of  my  rage  against 
lis  cruelties,  my  indignation,  my  bitter  resentment  of  his  treat- 
ment ?  Here  he  but  opens  his  arms  to  me,  and  I  fly  to  them, 
with  no  womanly  subterfuge,  no  temporizing,  but  only  a  great 
unfeigned  joy  that  he  comes  to  me  at  last.  But  these  thoughts 
do  not  trouble  me  at  the  moment — only  afterward,  too  late, 
when  he  is  gone. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  says,  still  holding  nay  hand,  "what 
Hector's  last  wish,  his  last  injunction  to  me  was  ?  He  had  a  pre- 
sentiment that  he  should  not  come  back.  I  laughed  at  it  then, 
little  thinking,  poor  fellow,  how  soon  it  was  to  come  true;  and 


DIANA    CAREW.  243 

his  last  charge  was  that  I  should  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  and 
that  I  would  look  after  the  peoply  at  Alf ord  and  carry  out  his 
plans.  And  I  will,  so  help  me  God!"  he  adds,  earnestly,  whilst 
a  dimness  comes  over  his  deep-blue  eyes.  "  And  you  will  help 
me,  darling,  won't  you  ?  He  said  you  knew  his  wishes  better 
than  any  one  else."  " 

A  chill  creeps  over  me.  I  scarcely  know  why,  a  dark,  cold 
suspicion  that  he  is  fulfilling  a  duty  to  his  dead  brother  shadows 
painfully  in  my  heart,  else  why  has  he  not  come  before  ? 

"  And  Lady  Montagu  ?"  I  ask,  doubtfully. 

"  My  mother  does  not  know."  he  answers.  "  I  have  not  dared 
to  tell  her  yet.  Fond  as  she  has  always  been  of  you,  she 
thinks " 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  quickly,  "  thinks — 

"  That  you  were  the  cause  of  Hector  going  abroad.  My  poor 
darling  "  (taking  my  hand  kissing  it  tenderly),  "  it  is  no  fault  of 
yours  that  you  should  inspire  such  passionate  love,  and  I  don't 
think  any  of  us  ever  gave  poor  Hector  credit  for  the  deep  feel- 
ing we  now  know  he  aad." 

As  he  speaks,  the  memory  of  Hector's  wan,  eager  face  comes 
to  me,  and  contrasts  itself  with  the  fair,  handsome,  unimpas- 
sioned  one  before  me.  But  Hector  was  pleading  with  power  of 
despair,  and  this  one — this  one  has  but  to  ask  and  have,  nay,  to 
have  love  showered  upon  him. 

"  I  have  made  a  resolve,"  continues  Sir  Charles — no,  I  cannot 
call  him  that — Charlie.  "  I've  been  an  irresolute,  self-indulgent 
fellow  ail  my  life,  and  now  I  want — oh,  little  one  "  (earnestly), 
"  you  can't  think  how  I  want  to  be  better  for  his  sake  aqd  yours, 
for  I  know  how  likely  I  am  to  slip  back  into  my  old  ways  again. 
I'm  not  gifted  with  what  they  call  moral  courage.  I've  always 
found  it  so  easy  just  to  do  what  was  pleasant  to  me,  and  not 
bother  my  head  about  whether  it  was  right  or  wrong.  I  never 
had  any  responsibilities,  you  know — never  expected  to  have  any. 
But,  looking  over  poor  Hector's  papers,  I  came  across  a  letter 
from  him  to  me  to  be  opened  after  his  death,  and  in  it 
he  said  he  knew  I  should  be  awfully  cut  up  for  a  bit 
after  his  death,  but  that  the  impression  would  soon  die  out, 
and  that  I  should  probably  only  think  of  making  the  place 
gay  and  pleasant,  and  spending  all  the  money  on  myself, 
and  forget  the  poor,  and  perhaps  let  a  bailiff  grind  them 
down;  and  he  begged  and  entreated  me  to  look  into  mat- 
ters myself,  and  try  to  do  some  good,  as  he  meant  to  do  if  he 
had  lived.  It  was  all  quite  true,  and  I  felt  it,"  Charlie  goes  on, 
with  a  shaky  voice.  "  I  have  no  faith  in  myself,  but  I  do  want 
to  do  what's  right,  and  I  want  some  good  little  soul  like  you  to 
show  me  the  way.  And  you  will,  won't  you,  dearest  ?  But 
now."  he  hurries  on,  "  I  am  going  away,  going  just  because  I 
want  to  try  and  exercise  self-control,  because  there  is  nothing 
in  this  world  I  should  like  so  much  as  stopping  here  and  making 
love  to  you.  only  I  feel  that  to  be  happy  and  forget  him,  poor 
fellow,  all  the  time  that  I  am  reaping  the  benefits  of  his  death, 
seems  inhuman.  And  now,  when  you  have  promised  to  be  mine, 
and  I  have  your  promise  to  live  on  for  the  next  few  dreary 


244  DIANA    CAREW. 

months,  I  am  going  away  from  Alford,  going  to  travel  with  my 
mother,  going  to  do  anything  that  will  make  the  time  pass 
quickest  until  I  can  come  back  to  you." 

He  takes  both  my  hands,  and  looks  into  my  eyes  the  look  that 
has  looked  my  heart  away  long  ago,  and  whispers: 

"  Tell  me,  darling,  may  I  hope?" 

Across  me  there  comes  a  bitter  regret  that  I  am  so  poor  a  creat- 
ure I  cannot  control  my  evident  joy  and  gladness  to  be  his.  His 
question,  "May  I  hope?"  is  a  farce:  and  by  the  involuntary 
consciousness  in  his  eyes  I  see  he  knows  it.  Yet,  to  save,  it  may 
be.  some  poor  semblance  of  dignity,  I  say,  averting  my  face 
from  him: 

"  Are  you  asking  me  for  my  own  sake,  or  is  it  only  because 
your  brother  wished  it  ?" 

My  hands  are  still  in  the  clasp  of  his.  He  presses  them  tighter 
and  whispers. 

"  Look  into  my  eyes  and  ask  me  that  again." 

I  look  into  the  blue  depths,  as  I  am  told,  with  an  eager,  search- 
ing gaze,  and  fancy  I  read  in  them  the  arswer  my  soul  would 
fain  have. 

"Are  you  satisfied,  little  unbelieving  one?"  he  asks.  And 
with  that  he  kisses  me  once  again,  lingeringly,  and  rises  to  go. 

"Are  you  going?"  I  ask,  with  a  feeling  of  unspeakable  dis- 
appointment— "  going  already  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  sighing.  "Don't  you  remember  what  I 
told  you?— I  haven't  the  heart  to  let  myself  be  happy  yet,  with 
the  thought  of  that  poor  fellow  gone  to  his  miserable  death. 
Good-bye,  little  darling.  I  know  you'll  be  faithful  to  me  until  I 
come  back;  but  kiss  me  once  more  and  tell  me  so." 

My  eyes  fill  with  tears.  To  have  found  him  only  to  lose  him 
again — it  seems  almost  too  cruel  a  pain  to  bear. 

"  You  will  write  to  me,"  I  plead,  "once  now  and  then,  that  I 
may  be  sure  what  has  happened  to-day  is  not  all  a  dream  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will  write.  Why,  child,  I  believe  you  are  only 
half  convinced  yet  how  I  love  you." 

"  And,"  I  say,  hesitating,  hardly  liking  to  say  it,  feeling  as  if 
it  looked  like  an  attempt  on  my  part  to  prevent  his  escaping 
from  his  word,  "may  I — may  I  tell  papa,  or"  (hastily)  "would 
you  rather  I  did  not  ? 

He  pauses  for  a  moment  before  answering. 

"You  do  not  wish  it?"  I  say,  only  anxious  to  do  that  which 
shall  be  pleasing  to  him. 

"  You  shall  do  what  you  think  best,  darling,"  he  answers. 
"  I  could  not  speak  to  him  myself  so  soon  after  poor  Hector's 
death;  and  I  would  not  for  the  world  my  mother  should  hear  of 
it  yet,  nor  from  any  lips  but  mine.  Trust  me  until  I  come  back." 
And  the  -blue  eyes  look  lovingly  at  me,  so  that  I  forget  every- 
thing but  that  his  will  is  my  law.  "  Do  you  think,"  he  adds, 
"  it  won't  be  hard  enough  for  me  to  go  away  from  my  happiness 
just  when  I  have  found  it  ?" 


DIANA    CAREW.  245 


CHAPTER  XLII. 
DIANA'S  STORY. 

HE  is  gone — gone!  and  I  am  sitting  at  the  window,  in  the  full, 
hot  sunshine,  trying  to  think.  Is  it  real  ?  I  pinch  myself,  as  I 
have  read  in  books  of  people  doing  to  make  sure  they  are  awake. 
That  is  hardly  a  good  test,  though,  for  in  some  happy  dreams  I 
have  similarly  assured  myself  of  the  reality  of  my  own  wakeful- 
ness.  Well,  there  is  no  mistake  this  time.  I,  Diana  Carew,  am 
in  full  wide-awake  possession  of  all  the  senses  that  have  been 
bestowed  upon  me.  I  feel  the  warm  sunshine  on  my  face  and 
throat,  I  hear  the  sweet  jubilance  of  the  birds  and  the  sonorous 
hum  of  the  big,  handsome  bees,  I  see  the  chestnut-tree,  that 
looks  like  a  gigantic  chandelier  with  its  thousands  of  wax  can- 
dles, and  the  green  fields  yonder  all  golden  with  buttercups,  and 
I  smell  the  heavily-scented  azaleas,  the  lilacs,  and  the  wall- 
flowers. And,  since  I  last  looked  out,  that  has  come  to  pass 
which,  in  my  wildest  dreams  of  possible  bliss,  has  never  taken 
the  shape  in  which  it  comes  real  to  me  to-day.  The  man  whom 
I  have  loved  with  all  my  love,  loved  unswervingly  in  good  report 
and  evil  report,  has  come  to  me,  come,  not  poor,  with  the  thought 
of  sacrificing  himself  in  coming,  but  gifted  with  many  gifts.  He 
has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  a  fate  than  which  none  in  this  world 
can  seem  to  me  more  altogether  blissful  or  to  be  desired.  And 
yet  I  am  not  happy.  Truly,  there  is  but  one  step  from  the  sub- 
lime to  the  ridiculous.  As  my  mind  shapes  the  sentence  that  the 
great  humorist  has  made  immortally  ridiculous,  I  cannot  help 
thinking  how  Curly,  a  couple  of  years  ago,  used  to  weary  our 
ears  with  its  constant  iteration,  notably,  '*  And  though  the  Christy 
Minstrels  never  perform  out  of  London,  yet  I  am  not  happy."  I 
smile  in  memory  of  my  boy,  and  then  my  thoughts  return  to 
graver  considerations. 

I  have  let  him  go  without  satisfying  myself  on  a  hundred 
points.  Whilst  he  was  with  me,  the  joyful  fact  of  his  presence 
made  me  oblivious  of  all  else;  but  now  that  he  is  gone,  and  I 
can  think  seriously,  cruel  doubts  rise  up  and  array  themselves 
against  me.  With  their  winged  shafts  they  pierce  every  joint 
in  the  armor  of  my  loving  confidence.  How  is  it  possible  that 
he  can  have  come  to  care  for  me  so  suddenly,  when  last  autumn 
he  could  treat  me  with  systematic  indifference,  even  making 
love  to  another  woman  before  my  eyes— when  in  the  preceding 
summer  he  could  coldly  avoid  me  and  take  an  interest  in  an- 
other m^n's  love  for  me  ?  Why,  too,  had  he  delayed  so  long  to 
come  to  me,  when  he  was  so  near  me  ?  How  could  he  go  away 
from  me  now  and  wish  his  proposal  to  be  kept  secret  ?  The 
more  I  think  over  it,  the  stronger  grows  the  ugly  doubt  in  my 
heart  of  his  love  for  me.  He  has  come  to-day  under  the  influ- 
ence of  his1  regret  for  his  brother  to  fulfill  his  last  wish.  At  last 
I  see  how  Hector  loved  me,  and  a  bitter  yearning  regret  for  him 
fills  my  heart.  As  a  mountain  to  a  mole-luU,  his  love  stands  in 
comparison  with  Charlie's.  What  greater  proof  of  love  could  I 
have  had  than  his  conquering  the  feeling  tnat  was  the  bitterest 


246  DIANA 

of  his  life — the  thought  of  my  being  his  brother's  wife!  At  last, 
too  late,  I  see  the  full  nobility  and  generosity  of  his  character; 
what  can  I  do  now  but  weep  blinding  tears  of  unavailing  regret? 
And  yet,  could  I  summon  him  back  in  the  flesh,  I  know  I  could 
never  have  loved  him  with  the  love  he  craved:  to  marry  him 
would  have  been  not  one  whit  less  a  sacrifice,  from  which  I 
should  have  shrunk  as  much  now  as  then. 

But  to  have  gained  happiness,  such  happiness  as  I  had  never 
dreamed  of,  and  for  the  taste  of  it  to  be  like  ashes  in  my  mouth! 
After  long  and  painful  thought,  I  decided  upon  keeping  the 
event  of  to-day  a  secret  even  from  papa:  a  painful  prescience 
comes  to  me  that  this  happiness  will  never  be  fulfilled.  So  I 
content  myself  with  telling  him  that  Sir  Charles  Montagu  has 
been  over  to  call,  and,  after  a  few  indifferent  questions  about 
him  papa  drops  the  subject.  There  is  one  great  hope  to  which  I 
cling— he  will  write  to  me,  and  in  his  letters  perhaps  he  will  say 
something  to  satisfy  my  hungry  hearts 

A  few  days  after  our  interview,  his  first  letter  comes.  It  is 
only  a  short  one,  principally  about  his  mother,  and  their  plans 
for  the  summer.  It  ends  thus: 

"  Dearest,  if  you  think  this  letter  cold  and  indifferent,  I  have 
tried  to  make  it  so.  I  feel  as  if  we  both  owe  it  to  Hector  not  to 
let  ourselves  be  happy  and  forget  him  yet." 

As  I  read,  my  miserable  unbelief  in  him  grows  stronger.  He 
does  not  love  me.  He  is  not  a  nature  to  be  acted  upon  by  any 
such  scruples  as  he  pretends:  the  first  element  of  his  sensuous, 
indolent  nature  is  to  indulge  himself  in  everything  that  pleases 
him:  if  (and  I  go  back  to  the  sentence  of  his  which  has  always 
galled  me  so  bitterly) — if  he  could  never  be  ten  minutes  alone 
with  a  woman  without  wanting  to  make  love  to  her,  could  he  be 
cool  and  indifferent  toward  the  woman  he  really  loved  and  meant 
to  make  his  wife  ?  My  heart  indignantly  rejects  the  idea. 

"  No,  no,  no!  he  does  not  love  me!"  I  say  to  myself,  bitterly, 
"  any  more  than  he  did  last  summer,  last  autumn."  I  do  not 
answer  his  letter;  I  cannot;  what  should  I  say? — but  I  dig  a 
grave  for  my  new-born  hopes,  and  give  them  decent  burial,  and 
try  to  smile,  as  if  all  the  joy  and  hope  of  my  life  were  not  buried 
with  them.  Yet  somewhere,  as  in  Pandora's  box,  lying  under 
all  the  doubts  and  fears  and  miseries,  there  is  a  little  winged 
Hope  lying,  that  his  presence  may  kindle  into  life  some  day,  if 
Fate  be  not  too  cruel.  I  do  not  even  conjecture  how  strong  it 
is  until,  one  morning  a  fortnight  later,  a  letter  comes  to  me  that 
slays  it  outright.  The  envelope  is  directed  in  a  strange  hand; 
inside  there  are  a  few  words  in  the  same  writing,  and  inclosed  is 
a  letter  from  him.  I  read  first  the  words  in  the  unknown  hand: 
"  The  sender  thinks  it  only  fair  to  Miss  Carew  that  she  should 
be  made  acquainted  with  the  real  state  of  Sir  Charles  Montagu's 
feelings." 

Then,  trembling  and  heart-sick,  I  go  to  my  own  room,  and, 
locking  myself  in,  read  his  letter  twice  over.  This  is  it: 

"  MY  DARLING, — After  what  has  happened  lately,  how  can  I 
ever  hope  to  make  you  think  kindly  of  rue  again  ?  To  profess 


DIANA    CAREW.  247 

my  love  for  you,  and  then  to  tell  you  I  ani  going  to  marry  an- 
other woman!  But  I  promised  my  brother — I  gave  him  my 
sacred  word ;  and  how  dare  I  go  back  from  a  promise  made  more 
sacred  still  by  death?  My  own  darling,  I  know  you  do  love  me, 
unworthy  though  lam  of  your  sweet  love.  The  thought  that  I 
shall  never  be  anything  more  to  you  half  breaks  my  heart.  I 
love  you.  I  do  not  love  her — need  I  tell  you  that  ?  If  I  had 
never  given  that  hateful  promise  to  Hector,  we  might  have  been 
so  awfully  happy  now!  Only,  if  I  many  her — and  I  hardly  see 
how  I  can  get  out  of  it — never  think  that  I  did  not  love  you  with 
all  my  heart  and  soul,  and  would  have  asked  no  greater  happi- 
ness than  to  have  you  for  my  wife,  if  Fate  had  not  been  against 
us.  She  complains  of  my  being  unloverlike;  if  she  could  only 
know  how  utterly  unloverlike  I  feel  toward  her!  So,  my  darling 
—for  the  last  time  I  dare  call  j-ou  so — good-bye,  and  may  your 
lot  be  a  happier-one  than  that  to  which  I  am  miserably  looking 
forward!  C.  M." 

When  I  have  read  the  letter  twice  through,  I  lay  it  down  and 
lean  my  head  upon  my  hands.  I  feel  stunned,  as  though  some 
one  had  struck  me  a  heavy  blow.  One  thought  iterates  itself 
again  and  again:  Hector  is  revenged — Hector  is  revenged!  Ay, 
had  I  treated  him  with  the  wantonest,  most  heartless  cruelty, 
had  I  laid  myself  out  to  win  his  love  and  then  spurned  it,  he 
would  yet  be  amply,  fully  revenged.  How  can  we  gauge  our 
sorrows  ?  I  thought  the  hours  when  I  believed  my  boy  dying, 
the  bitterest  ever  given  mortal  soul  to  know;  but  the  anguish  I 
feel  now  seems  not  less  keen.  To  be  spoken  of  by  him  with 
shuddering  dislike — to  have  inspired  in  him  nor  love  nor  liking 
— to  have  been  asked  tartily,  reluctantly  to  be  his  wife  because 
he  had  given  his  word  to  his  brother!  Oh.  it  was  an  easy  task 
to  give  him  up  for  his  own  sake,  that  I  might  not  mar  his  fort- 
unes, when  I  thought  he  had  some  little  love  for  me;  but  now, 
to  give  him  up  to  another  woman — a  woman  he  loves  passion- 
ately, loves  as  ardently  as  he  is  indifferent  to  me! 

"What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  misery?"  I  cry,  beating  my 
hands  together  in  an  agony  of  pain  and  shame.  "  Oh,  what 
have  I  done? — what  have  I  done'/' 

I  push  my  hair  off  my  brow,  and  rub  my  hands  hard  against 
it.  to  try  and  still  its  throbbing.  Is  it  like  this,  I  wonder,  that 
people  begin  to  go  mad  ?  If  I  could  only  get  away  somewhere! 
I  cannot  stay  in  this  place — cannot  go  on  leading  this  monoto- 
nous life.  I  will  go  to  papa  and  beg  him  to  take  me  away  at 
once — I  care  not  where,  if  only  it  be  a  long,  long  way  off.  I  am 
in  a  fever  of  impatience.  I  do  not  even  stop  to  look  at  myself 
in  the  glass,  nor  to  smooth  my  disheveled  hair.  I  thrust  the 
letter  into  my  pocket,  and  run  swiftly  down-stairs  to  his  study. 
He  looks  up  from  his  writing  as  I  enter,  then,  dropping  his  pen, 
cries: 

"  Di,  my  child,  what  ails  you  ?" 

With  an  unconscious  instinct  I  run  to  him,  fling  myself  down 
before  him,  and  bury  my  head  in  his  knees.  His  kind  arms  are 
round  me,  and  he  murmurs  brokenly: 


248  DIANA  CAREW. 

"  Poor  little  girl!  poor  child!" 

At  his  tender  voice,  at  the  sound  of  its  great  pity,  I  break  into 
tears  and  sobs  and  bitter  crying.  In  all  my  life,  I  have  never 
cried  like  this  before. 

And  papa  strokes  my  head,  and  presses  my  hands  in  his,  and 
says,  "  For  God's  sake,  child,  do  not  cry  like  this!  My  poor  little 
girl,  what  is  it?  What  can  I  say  to  comfort  you?" 

I  had  not  dreamed  of  this  outburst.  I  meant  to  have  come 
quietly  and  said  to  him,  "  Papa,  I  am  not  happy.  I  want  you  to 
take  me  away  somewhere.  Please  do  not  ask  me  any  questions;" 
but,  somehow,  at  sight  of  him,  at  the  sound  of  his  kind  voice,  I 
break  down. 

What  shall  I  tell  him  ?  What  account  shall  I  give  of  my  bitter 
pain  and  grief  ? 

He  waits  patiently  as  any  woman  until  my  sobs  die  away;  then 
he  says: 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  dear.    What  makes  you  unhappy?" 

But  I  am  silent.     How  can  I  tell  him  ? 

He  waits  yet  a  little,  and  then,  stroking  my  head  fondly,  says: 

"  Am  I  not  your  father  ?  Who  can  feel  for  your  pain  as  I  do? 
If  your  mother  were  living,  you  would  take  your  trouble  to  her; 
but,  since  she  is  dead  "  (sighing)  "  let  me  be  father  and  mother 
both  to  you." 

I  would  fain  tell  him,  but  the  words  will  not  come.  How  can 
one  tell  one's  father  of  one's  foolish,  unreturned  love? 

"  Do  you  think  I  never  noticed,"  he  goes  on,  "  how  changed 
you  were  after  you  first  went  to  Warrington  ?  Do  you  think  a 
father  can  be  so  dull  and  blind  as  not  to  notice  when  his  children 
suffer  ?  Do  you  think,  my  poor  little  girl,  I  never  guessed  the 
cause  of  your  happiness  because  it  was  out  of  my  power  to  help 
you?" 

At  last  my  lips  unclose. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  I  cry,  hurriedly;  and,  nerving  myself  with  a 
great  effort,  my  face  turned  away  from  him— turned  to  the  light 
where  the  cruel  sun  streams  in  unmindful  of  my  heart's  pain — 
stammer  out  incoherently,  sobbingly,  painfully,  my  "  plain,  un- 
varnished tale." 

"  You  know  when  I  first  went  to  Warrington,  when  I  first  met 
poor  Sir  Hector,  his  brother.  Captain  Montagu  was  there.  He 
could  not  help  it "  (with  a  sigh  that  nearly  rives  my  chest  asun- 
der): "  he  was  always  used  to  see  beautiful,  fashionable  women. 
What  should  he  think  about  a  little  stupid  country  girl  ?  But  I 
—I  shall  never  care  for  any  one  again." 

"  S  ,"  bays  papa,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  was  why  you  refused 
Sir  Hector  and  Lord  Seldon  ?" 

"  Then,"  I  proceed,  becoming  more  and  more  embarrassed  with 
my  recital,  and  looking  away  for  help  out  through  the  sunshine 
and  the  deep-colored  roses  to  the  far  blue  heaven,  "then,  when 
I  was  at  Alford  he  came  home  unexpectedly,  and  we  were  to- 
gether a  good  deal.  I  don't  know  why  "  ^my  voice  faltering), 
"  perhaps — perhaps  he  could  not  help  seeing  I — I  cared  for  him, 
but  he  asked  me  very  generously  to  marry  him." 

"Well?"  papa's  voice  is  low  and  imi>atient. 


DIANA    CAREW.  249 

"Well?' I  echo,  reproachfully,  "as  if  I  would  have  let  him 
burden  himself  with  me  who  had  nothing,  when  he  had  been 
used  to  every  luxury  all  his  life.  No "  (with  a  touch  of  pride); 
"  he  was  willing  to  take  me,  but  I  would  not  have  him." 

Papa  makes  an  impatient  movement.  I  hurry  on.  "  When 
I  met  him  in  town  he  avoided  me;  I  don't  suppose  "  (sighing) 
"he  had  ever  thought  much  about  me,  and  then,  you  know,  at 
the  Desboroughs'  every  one  thought  he  was  going  to  marry  the 
heiress.  From  that  time  until  the  other  day  when  he  came  here 
I  have  never  seen  him." 

"And  is  it  possible,"  papa  asks,  wonderingly,  "that  you  have 
gone  on  caring  for  him  all  this  time,  when  he  has  never  even 
kept  up  a  pretense  of  thinking  of  you  ?" 

His  words  stab  me  to  the  heart.  I  put  my  hands  before  my 
face  to  hide  the  fire  of  shame  that  burns  my  cheeke. 

"He  came  the  other  day,"  I  falter,  "to  ask  me  to  marry 
him!" 

"  What!"  cries  papa,  in  a  voice  of  utter  astonishment. 

"He  came,"  I  go  on,  coldly,  not  sparing  myself,  "because 
Hector's  last  wish  was  that  he  should  marry  me." 

"Oh,  Di,  Di!"  exclaimed  papa,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice; 
"  where  are  your  women's  eyes  and  hearts,  that  you  cannot  ap- 
preciate such  a  noble  fellow  as  that,  but  fritter  away  your  love 
on  one  who  is  not  worthy  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  year  with 
him?  Well"  (impatiently),  "and  what  did  you  say  to  him? 
Did  you  refuse  him  again  for  his  own  sake  ?" 

"  No,"  I  mutter:  "  no." 

"  Well,  then,  in  Heaven's  name,  why  did  he  not  come  to  me, 
like  an  honorable  man,  and  why  are  you  in  such  grief  to-day  ?" 

"  He  did  not  speak  to  you,"  I  return,  hastening  to  defend  the 
man  I  love,  "because — because,  poor  Hector  having  been  dead 
so  short  a  time,  he  did  not  wish  anything  known  yet.  He 
thought  it  would  look  unfeeling." 

"Oh!"  utters  papa,  doubtfully.  "But,  Di,  we  have  not  come 
to  the  cause  of  your  trouble  yet." 

"  It  is  this,"  I  cry,  taking  the  letter  and  inclosed  lines  from 
my  pocket  and  thrusting  them  into  his  hand. 

He  takes  it,  and  while  he  reads  I  look  up  for  the  first  time  and 
scan  his  face.  He  makes  no  sign,  utters  no  word;  and  yet  his 
face  is  eloquent  enough  to  me.  I  have  seen  enough.  I  hide  my 
eyes  with  my  hands. 

"  Poor  little  girl!"  I  hear  him  murmur,  presently,  in  a  broken 
voice. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

PAPA  does  not  for  an  instant  hesitate  to  yield  to  my  wish  to  go 
away.  I  think,  indeed,  he  would  have  proposed  it  if  I  had  not 
done  so.  And  now  the  money  difficulty  dots  not  stand  between 
us  and  the  fulfillment  of  our  wish,  as  it  would  have  done  this 
time  last  year.  The  Fanes  are  going  to  Switzerland,  and  have 
already  urged  us  to  join  them.  Now  papa  writes  to  ask  Colonel 


250  DIANA    CAREW. 

Fane  if  it  would  be  agreeable  to  them  to  have  our  companion- 
ship, and  receives  a  quick  response  in  the  affirmative.  Ere  ten 
days  have  passed,  I  have  turned  my  back  upon  my  own  country, 
indifferent  in  my  misery,  save  for  Curly's  sake,  whether  I  ever 
behold  it  again.  On  the  day  I  leave  England  I  inclose  the  let- 
ter, with  its  anonymous  companion,  to  Sir  Charles.  At  first  I 
thought  of  sending  them  without  any  addition  from  me,  and  let- 
ting them  tell  their  own  tale;  but  on  this  point  I  change  my 
mind.  I  would  not  have  him  think  I  blamed  him  for  being  un- 
able to  love  me.  So  I  add  these  lines: 

"  DEAR  SIR  CHARLES, — The  letters  I  inclose  speak  for  them- 
selves. Of  course  I  know  you  never  intended  the  one  in  your 
writing  to  fall  into  niy  hands,  and  I  am  quite  sure  you  will  be 
very  sorry  it  has  done  so.  You  acted  very  generously  in  asking 
me  to  be  your  wife,  you  have  done  your  duty  to  your  brother, 
and  can  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  It  is  I  who 
positively  refuse  to  marry  you;  do  not  make  any  attempt  to 
shake  my  resolve — it  would  be  utterly  useless,  and  only  put  us 
both  to  unnecessary  pain.  When  you  get  this,  I  shall  be  out  of 
England.  Do  not  try  to  find  out  where  I  am.  I  have  left  the 
most  urgent  directions  with  the  only  two  people  who  know,  not 
to  tell  you.  I  hope  you  may  be  very  happy. 

"  Yours  sincerely. 

"  DIANA  CAREW." 

So,  in  this  lame,  cold  effusion,  I  take  my  leave  of  the  man  who 
has  had  all  the  love  of  my  young  heart — who  has  taken  it  and 
left  me  bankrupt. 

The  Fanes  are  very  kind;  they  affect  not  to  notice  my  sad  and 
altered  demeanor,  but  ere  long  in  my  desperate  need  of  sym- 
pathy I  fly  for  comfort  to  Claire's  loving  pity.  For,  though  she 
is  outwardly  as  bright  and  cheerful  as  ever,  I  know  right  well 
that  it  is  from  a  sense  of  duty,  not  from  any  spontaneous  gayety. 
My  tutored  eyes  discern  how  surely  the  iron  has  entered  her  soul 
too.  And,  like  the  angel  that  she  is,  she  ministers  her  sweet 
pity  and  consolation  to  my  sorrow,  and  I  am  comforted  by  it. 
She  says  I  have  done  right.  What  else  could  I  do  when  the 
knowledge  came  to  me  that  he  was  only  sacrificing  himself  to  a 
sense  of  duty  and  had  no  love  to  give  me?  Surely  fate  was  in  a 
bitter  mood  when  she  thrust  upon  me  the  power  of  making  my- 
self passionately  beloved  where  I  could  give  no  return,  and  with- 
held it  where  it  would  have  made  fair  all  my  life.  If  1  were 
only  good  like  Claire!  I  cannot  kiss  the  rod  as  she  would  have 
me,  as  she  does  herself.  I  cannot  thank  God  for  my  ruined  life. 
The  most  I  can  do  is  to  try  hard,  oh,  how  hard!  not  to  rebel  too 
violently. 

"  My  dear,"  she  whispers,  with  her  soft  kind  arms  about  my 
neck,  and  her  tears  falling  in  sympathy  with  mine,  "you  will 
see  it  yet.  I  know  how  hard,  how  almost  impossible  it  seems  at 
first  to  see  anything  but  cruelty  and  injustice  in  these  bitter 
trials;  but  if  only  you  do  not  harden  your  heart,  you  will  see 
the  love  of  God  in  it  some  day,  and  be  able  \;o  say,  '  It  is  well.' " 

Until  now  it  has  never  been  difficult  for  me  to  love  God  and 


DIAXA     CAREW.  251 

pray  to  him;  reverence  for  all  that  is  good  and  great  is  a  part 
of  my  nature;  in  a  humble,  childlike  way,  I  have  looked  up  to 
my  Father  in  heaven,  and  asked  of  him,  as  I  have  been  bidden, 
those  gifts  that  I  have  desired.  I  have  brought  to  his  footstool 
all  my  cares  but  one:  how  dared  I  bring  my  earthly  love?  I 
have  been  taught  that  I  must  love  God  first  before  all  others; 
and  how,  then,  could  I  pray  for  his  sanction  to  my  setting  up  an 
idol  before  him,  and  worshiping  it  witli  that  rapt,  passionate 
love  which  our  earth-cloyed  souls  give  so  easily  and  naturally  to 
mortals,  and  whose  intensity  is  in  measure  and  degree  so  far 
beyond  the  devout  and  reverential,  but  cold  love  we  offer  to  the 
Deity?  My  talks  with  Claire,  however,  do  me  good;  it  must, 
indeed,  be  a  hard  nature  on  which  her  sweet  goodness  could 
leave  no  impress.  She  is  so  bright,  so  kindly,  so  humble;  there 
is  none  of  the  austerity  of  conscious  goodness  about  her;  she  is 
not  afraid  to  laugh  and  be  merry,  lest  she  should  detract  from 
her  character  for  saintliness.  I  have  heard  men  speak  against 
women,  accuse  them  of  envy,  malice,  littleness.  I  would  like 
them  to  know  Claire,  to  see  her  appreciation  of  goodness,  talent, 
or  beauty  in  others,  her  quick,  glad  recognition  of  excellence 
wherever  shown,  Her  affection  does  not  hang  upon  the  medi- 
ocrity of  her  friends,  as  I  am  told  (by  men)  that  most  women's 
does. 

There  is,  at  all  events,  one  person  who  thoroughly  appreciates 
her — her  brother. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  one  day,  when  we  were  talking  about  her,  "if 
there  were  more  women  like  Claire  going  about  the  world,  what 
a  much  more  tolerable — indeed,  what  a  much  happier — place  it 
would  be!  But,  unfortunately,  most  good  women  are  dull,  and 
many  bright  women  are — well,  not  exactly  what  you  would  call 
good,  so  that  it  does  not  very  often  fall  to  a  man's  lot  to  see  one 
like  Claire,  who  is  good,  charitable,  unselfish,  and  the  merriest, 
brightest  companion  all  in  one.'* 

If  I  were  to  add  what  Colonel  Fane  added  to  this — not,  I  must 
confess,  with  any  truth  or  justice,  but  that  I  might  not  feel  my- 
self left  out  in  the  cold — I  suppose  I  might  draw  down  upon  my 
foolish  head  the  condemnation  wherewith  I  visited  the  egotism 
of  Miss  Harriet  Byron.  We  are  in  Paris,  en  route  for  Switzer- 
land. Colonel  Fane  and  his  sister  find  it  sadly  altered  since  the 
war;  but  to  me,  who  have  never  seen  the  Queen  of  Cities  before, 
and  to  papa,  who  only  remembers  it  in  the  first  days  of  the  great 
unhappy  emperor  who  (let  no  man  forget)  made  her  what  she  is, 
it  seems  the  gayest,  the  most  beautiful  city  the  mind  of  man 
could  imagine.  How  marvelously  buoyant  and  volatile  must  be 
the  French  nature,  to  stand  erect  so  soon  from  the  weight  of  such 
crushing  misfortunes! 

Our  first  destination  after  Paris  is  Geneva,  which  we  have 
agreed  to  make  our  headquarters.  It  strikes  us  as  being  dull 
after  Paris,  and  the  glare  is  frightful.  The  evenings  on  the  lake 
are  pleasant,  and  I  like  to  stand  on  the  bridge  and  look  down  at 
the  blue  rushing  Rhone,  deep  and  blue  as  his  eyes.  Colonel  Fane 
is  kindness  itself,  he  takes  such  care  of  nie,  and  never  seems  to 
forget  any  tiling  that  could  add  to  my  comfort.  For  the  last  few 


S52  DIANA    CAREW. 

days  a  suspicion  has  begun  to  dawn  on  me  that  papa  is  falling  in 
love  with  Claire.  Dearly  as  I  love  her,  the  very  thought  gives 
me  a  tinge  of  jealous  pain,  we  have  always  been  first  with  him, 
Curly  and  I,  and,  now  that  I  have  no  one  left  but  my  father,  it 
seems  cruel  to  think  of  losing  him,  I  try  hard  not  to  be  selfish, 
I  remind  myself  of  the  sad,  lonely  life  he  has  led.  I  can  see 
plainly  enough  how  bright  Claire  might  make  his  future;  and 
yet — yet  the  thought  of  giving  up  the  chatelaineship  of  home 
however  poor  an  office  it  may  seem  in  the  eyes  of  others,  i, 
grievous  and  bitter  to  me.  I  begin  to  watch  her  narrowly,  in  the 
endeavor  to  discover  what  her  feelings  for  him  are,  and  I  fancy 
that  sometime?  her  bright  eyes  are  brighter  still,  and  the  delicate 

Sink  in  her  face  deepens  when  he  appeals  to  her,  as  he  often 
oes. 

Some  one  has  strongly  recommended  to  us  the  ascent  of  Les 
Voirons,  some  mountains  near  Geneva,  where  we  are  told  is  a 
charming  hotel,  and  one  of  the  loveliest  views  in  Switzerland. 
Papa  and  Colonel  Fane  decide  upon  our  spending  a  day  or  two 
up  there,  and  accordingly  we  set  forth  on  our  journey.  If  the 
result  repaid  us,  we  agreed  before  reaching  our  destination,  we 
should  be  fortunate,  for  great  were  the  disagreeables,  not  to  say 
perils,  we  encountered  en  route.  We  drove  from  Geneva  to 
Bergue,  where  we  arrived  in  a  deluge  of  rain,  and  found  nothing 
but  a  wretched  and  most  uninviting  auberge.  Mine  host  was 
about  the  most  ill-looking  and  surly  individual  conceivable:  if 
we  had  been  in  Italy  instead  of  honest  Switzerland,  our  minds 
might  have  undergone  some  apprehensions  as  to  our  safety, 
more  especially  as  there  was  a  great  open  trap-door  in  the  room 
into  which  we  were  rudely  ushered.  After  alternate  threats  and 
persuasions,  Colonel  Fane  wrung  a  promise  of  a  steed  apiece  for 
Claire  and  myself;  they  themselves  would  have  to  walk.  Our 
surly  host  went  to  fetch  the  horses  from  the  plow,  and  in  about 
an  hour  we  were  mounted  and  off.  The  sensation  was  like  what 
I  should  imagine  riding  on  a  dromedary  might  be.  There  was 
scarcely  any  footing,  at  times,  it  was  about  as  easy  as  riding  up 
a  ladder  cut  in  a  rock.  Suddenly,  as  we  were  nearing  our  jour- 
ney's end,  Claire's  horse  stumbled  and  threw  her.  There  was  no 
more  doubt  in  my  mind  after  that  what  papa  felt  for  her;  the 
agonized  expression  of  his  face,  as  he  bent  over  her,  would  have 
told  me  plainly  enough  if  I  had  never  guessed  it  before.  Most 
fortunately,  she  is  not  hurt,  but  she  refuses  to  mount  again,  and 
performs  the  rest  of  the  journey  leaning  on  papa's  arm,  whilst 
my  eyes,  half  jealous,  half  kindly,  follow  them.  I  fancy  Colonel 
Fane  is  sad  and  out  of  sorts  too;  perhaps  he  also  suspects  some- 
thing, and  is  reluctant  to  lose  Claire.  He  may  well  be  that. 

At  last  we  reach  the  hotel,  and,  glad  as  we  are  to  get  there, 
with  the  darkness  coming  on,  we  begin  to  think  lugubriously 
that  we  have  been  "  let  in."  It  is  too  dark  to  see  the  view;  we 
are  the  first  visitors  of  the  season;  it  is  damp  and  chilly,  and 
there  are  no  fires  anywhere.  But  two  hours  later,  when  we 
have  dined  by  no  means  badly,  and  are  sitting  round  the  blazing 
wood  fire,  we  are  able  to  take  a  more  cheerful  view  of  things; 
and  the  next  day,  which  is  gloriously  bright  and  sunny,  we  are 


DIANA    CAREW.  253 

fain  to  admit,  after  having  explored  the  neighborhood,  that  we 
were  not  the  victims  to  a  heartless  practical  joke,  as  we  at  first 
dismally  conceived  ourselves. 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  after  our  arrival.  My 
heart  is  sad  and  bitter  within  me,  and  I  creep  away  from  the 
rest  of  the  party  and  wend  my  way  alone  through  the  pines  to  a 
solitary  spot,  where  I  may  nurse  my  sorrow  all,  all  alone.  To 
say  that  the  day  and  scene  are  glorious,  is  to  give  but  very  poor 
and  faint  expression  to  my  sense  of  their  beauty;  but  what  other 
words  can  I  find  ?  Down  in  sultry,  glaring  Geneva  to-day  the 
heat  would  be  unbearable;  walking  along  the  white,  hot  streets, 
unless  provided  with  a  dense  blue  veil,  the  sun  would  scorch 
one's  eyes  and  face.  But  up  here,  so  much  nearer  to  him,  one 
can  bear  his  fervent  kiss  unsheltered  by  veil  or  parasol:  his 
fierceness  is  tempered  to  delicious  warmth  by  the  soft  cool  winds 
that  come  from  heaven  across  the  brow  of  the  snow-king.  I 
throw  myself  upon  the  short  green  turf,  all  gay  with  myriad 
eyes  of  pink,  "blue,  and  yellow,  an  "enameled  sward  "  indeed, 
and  let  my  eyes  wander  down  the  valley  to  the  white  glistening 
town,  the  lovely  lake,  blue  as  a  deep-colored  forget-me-not,  with 
the  serpent  windings  of  the  Rhone  flowing  into  it. 

The  dark  chain  of  the  Jura  stretches  away  in  front  of  me:  on 
all  sides  are  mountains,  some  velvety  green  and  pine-crowned, 
some  bare  and  sterile,  and  away,  far  off,  but  clear  against  the 
blue  sky,  garbed  in  his  unchanging  white  garment,  stands  Mont 
Blanc.  Green  and  fair  is  the  valley  beneath;  sweet  odors  rise 
from  the  mountain's  pine-clad  sides,  and  the  birds  are  singing  up 
in  these  heights  joyously  and  tunefully  as  they  sing  in  our  woods 
at  home.  Is  not  nature  fair  ?  and  yet  its  fairness  cannot  make 
my  soul  less  sad — nay,  rather  more  so.  There  is  only  one  thing 
that  seems  happiness  to  me  to-day — oblivion,  nothingness,  to  shut 
one's  eyes  once  forever  on  some  such  scene  as  this,  and  never 
through  all  the  countless  ages  to  unclose  them  again.  I  have 
lost  the  power  of  realizing  a  happy  future;  all  life,  all  existence, 
it  seems  to  me,  must  be  marred  with  some  pain.  Then  the 
thought  comes  to  me  with  grim  irony  that  now,  my  life  is  done, 
my  father's  is  beginning.  God  knows  I  do  not  begrudge  him. 
any  happiness,  only 

My  swift  thoughts  fly  back  to  the  one  love  of  my  life — the 
foolish,  unhappy,  but,  oh!  I  think,  the  faithfulest  love  a  woman 
ever  gave  to  man.  How  can  I  live  through  all  the  long,  dull 
years  without  him — the  great,  appalling  number  of  years  that  I 
have  yet  to  crawl  through  before  I  reach  the  allotted  number  of 
threescore  and  ten  ?  And  yet  life  is  called  brief,  fleeting.  Why, 
to  me  a  year  seems  an  eternity.  A  year!  Where  shall  I  be  this 
time  next  year?  and  he,  where  will  he  be?  Married  to  the 
woman  he  loves,  whispers  my  heart.  Oh,  Heaven!  what  has  she 
done  to  deserve  so  glad,  so  blest  a  fate,  and  what  have  I  done  to 
inherit  mine  ?  The  thought  is  too  much  for  rne.  I  fling  myself 
prone  on  the  short,  sweet  turf.  I  tear  with  ruthless  hands  the 
jeweled  eyes  from  their  green  head,  and  cry  and  sob  to  Heaven 
to  pity  or  to  slay  me,  since  I  cannot  longer  endure  the  aching 
agony  of  life  without  him. 


DIANA    CAREW. 

My  rage  of  pain  has  spent  itself  at  last;  my  sobs  come  fitfully. 
There  is  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  distance,  and  I  rise  and  turn  to 
flee.  For  pride's  sake,  I  would  not  be  seen  with  the  traces  of  my 
late  violent  emotion  upon  me.  I  walk  hurriedly  along  the  mount- 
ain's slope.  Suddenly  a  voice  utters  my  name — a  voice  whose 
sound  sends  the  blood  rushing  to  my  brain  and  my  heart  1'  °  v 
to  my  throat.  I  turn.  Where  are  my  senses?  am  I  dreamin; 
kind  Heaven,  if  it  be  so,  let  me  never  wake  again!  He  i;  j, 
my  lost  love  who  has  so  cruelly  torn  my  heart  in  twain.  His 
arms  are  round  me;  his  gentian-colored  eyes  are  looking  into 
mine — mine  that  I  know  are  spoiled  and  marred  with  tears — and 
yet  I  care  not;  vanity,  grief,  all  are  forgotten  in  this  supreme 
moment  in  which  I  forecast  Paradise.  Does  what  1  say  sound 
too  strong?  Ah!  but  if  you  ever  loved  with  all  your  heart  and 
soul,  loved  and  lost,  and  found  your  love  again!  No  single  ques- 
tion comes  to  my  lips.  I  care  not  to  know  why  or  how  he 
came.  I  have  forgotten  that  other  woman  whom  he  loved. 
With  his  arms  about  me,  his  lips  pressed  to  mine,  every  doubt, 
every  fear,  is  gone;  by  the  passionate  emotion  of  his  voice  as  he 
whispers  the  sweetest  words  my  hungered  ears  ever  heard,  by 
the  quivering  of  his  strong  arms  that  bind  me,  do  I  not  know, 
let  what  will  have  gone  before,  though  he  may  have  seemed  in- 
different in  bygone  days,  that  he  loves  me  now  ? — not,  perhaps, 
as  I  love  him — nay,  how  can  a  heart  that  has  loved  often  feel 
the  intense  devotion  of  the  one  that  has  but  known  a  single  pas- 
sion?— but  he  lov  es  me.  That  is  enough  forme!  I  am  content. 
It  is  well — passing  well.  If  I  had  not  known  the  wild  misery  of 
the  last  three  weeks,  could  I  have  tasted  the  utter,  exquisite  joy 
of  to-day,  with  the  blue  sky  above  me,  and  the  fair  valley  be- 
neath, the  sweet  birds'  song,  the  scented  air,  and  above  all,  with- 
out which  sights  and  scents  and  sounds  were  barren  so  short  a 
while  ago,  "  the  arms  of  my  true  love  round  me  once  again." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

NOT    TOLD    BY    DIANA. 

THE  shock  to  Colonel  Montagu  of  his  brother's  death  was  in- 
describable. If  they  had  been  the  most  devoted  brothers  in  the 
world,  he  could  hardly  have  felt  it  more  keenly,  corning  as  it 
did  so  swiftly  upon  Hector's  presentiment,  and  with  the  memory 
of  his  wan,  altered  face.  His  first  impulse  was  to  start  for 
Naples  to  bring  back  the  body,  The  moment  he  got  his  foreign 
leave,  he  was  off.  traveling  day  and  night  until  he  readied  his 
destination  But  the  sea  never  gave  up  her  dead.  Colonel  Mon- 
tagu came  home  haggard,  with  a  great  grief  gnawing  at  his 
heart.  He  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  having  let  his  brother 
go;  not  one  exultant  thought  crept  into  his  heart  at  the  advan- 
tage he  was  to  reap  from  the  death  of  the  poor  fellow  lying 
fathoms  deep  under  the  blue  waters.  It  he  was  self-indulgent 
and  reckless,  he  had  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world.  Ambition 
had  never  troubled  him:  he  had  been  content  with  his  easy, 
pleasant  life,  loved  by  men  and  women  too.  He  might  be  ex- 
travagant, but  he  thought  it  rather  a  joke  to  make  his  old  cur- 


DIAXA    CAREW.  255 

mudgeon  of  a  father  pay  for  his  gay  follies.  He  never  kept  a 
poor  man  waiting  for  his  money,  nor  refused  to  help  a  friend  in 
trouble.  There  was  •' no  straighter  fellow  going  than  Charlie 
Montagu,"  all  his  brother  officers  averred. 

This  was  the  first  grief  he  had  known  in  his  life,  and  he  felt  it 
aeu.  ~.  Daj'  nor  night  could  he  forget  Hector's  changed,  sad 
face  or  his  parting  words.  It  seemed  almost  a  crime  to  him 
to  k  :;h  or  be  happy  when  he  thought  of  the  pain  his  brother 
had  Coffered— the  pain  that  had  banished  him  to  a  strange  land 
to  die.  His  thoughts  would  go  back  remorsefully  to  the  night 
at  Alford  when  he  had  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  his  self-in- 
dulgent nature  to  make  hot  love  to  Diana.  He  had  not  really 
loved  her  then — not  loved  her  as  he  had  grown  to  do  since;  it 
had  been  a  sudden  passion  kindled  in  him  by  her  love,  her 
beauty,  and  the  witchery  of  the  warm,  lovely  night. 

Perhaps,  he  told  himself,  had  Fate  not  put  her  in  his  way  that 
night,  or  had  he  used  his  honor  to  resist  the  temptation,  Diana 
would  have  come  to  care  for  Hector,  and  lie,  poor  fellow,  would 
be  living  now.  And  yet  at  that  thought  a  twinge  came  across 
him;  he  could  not  wish  Diana  any  one's  but  his  own  now;  and 
yet  I  believe  firmly  if  giving  her  up  could  have  brought  the  dead 
brother  back,  he  would  have  tried  to  pluck  her  out  of  his  heart. 
There  was  only  one  atonement  he  could  make  now;  he  would, 
to  the  very  letter,  carry  out  every  wish  of  Hector's  that  con- 
cerned the  estate,  and  he  would  ascetically  deny  himself  any 
profit  or  joy  yet  awhile  out  of  his  brother's  death.  He  forgot 
that  by  this  self-denial  he  was  making  the  woman  he  loved  suf- 
fer; he  had  but  one  idea — it  would  be  wrong  to  be  happy  yet. 
Her  presence  would  make  him  happy;  he  longed  eagerly,  ar- 
dently, to  go  to  her,  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  be  quite  per- 
suaded of  what  he  was  so  nearly  certain — that  she  still  loved  him, 
and  would  forgive  his  seeming  indifference  'and  neglect  of  her. 
Somehow  he  felt  as  if  she  must  of  her  own  knowledge  guess  the 
truth  that  he  had  loved  her  all  the  while,  but  that  lie  was  bound 
by  the  promise  Hector  had  wrung  from  him  over  his  father's 
death-bed.  When  the  vision  of  her  sweet  face  and  sorrowful 
eyes,  sorrowful  from  his  making,  came  to  him,  he  tore  it  out  as 
treason  to  the  dead  man.  True,  it  was  Hector's  dying  wish  that 
lie  should  marry  her — would  it  not  be  the  joy  of  his  life  in  the 
time  to  come  ? — but  not  yet,  not  yet — while  the  memory  of  Hec- 
tor's grief  and  death  was  still  green  and  fresh.  How  many  a 
time,  when  he  rose  in  the  morning,  had  he  said  to  himself,  with 
his  old,  self-indulgent  habit,  "  I  will  ride  over  and  see  my  dar- 
ling to-day,"  and  done  violence  to  himself  afterward  to  resist  the 
temptation!  and  at  last,  when  he  did  go,  how  he  had  schooled 
himself  to  be  cold  and  quiet,  and  keep  back  the  love  that  was 
rioting  in  his  heart,  and  so  had  made  her  fancy  him  indifferent! 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  she  would  not  understand  the 
restraint  he  was  putting  upon  himself,  and  the  reason  of  it. 

"When  Diana's  letter  with  the  inclosures  reached  him,  it  was  a 
revelation.  He  saw  at  last  the  cruelty  he  had  been  practicing 
upon  her,  a  cruelty  to  which  her  anonymous  correspondent, 
whether  friend  or  foe  he  could  not  divine  "had  put  the  culminat- 


256  DIANA    CAREW. 

ing  touch.  Why,  that  was  the  very  letter  he  had  written  to  her 
at  the  Desboroughs'  the  day  of  Curly's  accident,  and  afterward 
had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  send,  because  it  would  be  a  breach 
of  faith  to  Hector.  He  had  missed  it  afterward  from  his  blot- 
ting-book,  but  fancied  he  must  have  torn  it  up  with  other  papers. 
And  this  the  poor  sensitive  darling  had  somehow  or  other  turned 
against  herself,  and  had  gone  away  abroad  to  escape  him. 
Well,  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do  now,  at  all  events;  he  was 
not  going  to  lose  the  hope  of  his  life  for  any  scruples  about  the 
right  or  wrong  of  being  happy;  he  would  take  the  goods  the 
gods  sent,  and  his  heart  beat  with  exultation  at  the  thought. 
He  rang  for  .his  servant,  and  ordered  him  to  have  everything 
packed  by  the  afternoon,  and  then  he  went  to  find  his  mother. 
They  were  in  Ireland.  He  would  get  to  Dublin  that  night  in 
time  to  cross,  and  go  straight  to  Curly,  from  whom  he  knew 
quite  well  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  discovering  his  sister's 
whereabouts,  when  he  explained  to  him  why  he  wanted  it. 

He  then  went  to  his  mother's  room.     She  was  not  yet  dressed. 

"  I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you,  mother,"  he  said, 
as  he  entered.  "Parker"  (to  the  maid),  "don't  look  black  at 
me  for  invading  these  sacred  precincts."  He  spoke  in  his  usual 
pleasant,  smiling  way,  and  Parker,  far  from  looking  black, 
smiled,  as  every  woman  smiled  at  Charlie  Montagu,  and  re- 
tired. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear?"  Lady  Montagu  asked,  anxiously,  un- 
nerved by  the  severe  shocks  she  had  undergone.  "  No  bad  new^s, 
I  trust?" 

"No.  Don't  be  alarmed — nothing  the  matter."  he  returned, 
and  then  hesitated,  finding  some  little  difficulty  in  broaching  the 
matter  on  his  mind.  "  Little  mother,"  he  said,  sitting  down  by 
her,  and  taking  her  hand  in  the  caressing  manner  that  was  ha- 
bitual to  him,  "I  told  you  one  of  poor  Hector's  last  wishes; 
there  was  another  I  did  not  tell  you." 

"Yes?"  answered  Lady  Montagu,  the  ready  tears  starting  to 
her  eyes  at  the  mention  of  her  poor  dead  son.  "  Tell  me  about 
it,  dear." 

"You  know  how  fond  he  was  of  Diana  Carew?" 

Lady  Montagu  shivered  a  little,  as  if  the  remembrance  pained 
her. 

"  The  last  wish  he  expressed  to  me  was  that  "  (speaking  very 
slowly)  "  I  should  marry  her." 

"  Impossible!"  cried  Lady  Montagu,  with  energy;  "  impos- 
sible! I  used  to  be  fond  of  her.  I  do  not  wish  to  condemn  her, 
but  I  can  never  forget  that  poor  Hector's  death  lies  at  her 
door." 

"  Don't  be  unjust,  little  mother,"  said  Charlie,  gently.  "You 
cannot  accuse  her  of  having  tried  to  make  him  like  her,  or  of 
giving  him  any  false  encouragement.  She  never  went  to  Alford 
without  being  greatly  pressed.  It  was  a  dreadful  misfortune 
for  Hector,  poor  dear  fellow,  but  no  one  could  say  it  was  her 
fault." 

"But,"  argued  his  mother,  "  it  is  inconceivable  that  he  should 
have  wished  you  to  marry  her:  he  was  intensely  jealous  of  you; 


DIANA     CAREW.  257 

he  made  me  promise  never  even  to  breathe  your  name  in  her 
presence." 

"I  know,"  sighed  Charlie;  "and  before  he  paid  my  debts 
after  my  poor  father  died,  he  made  me  swear  never  to  utter  a 
word  of  love  to  her  again.  It  did  not  seem  so  hard  then;  but 
afterward,  when  I  saw  her  in  town,  and  at  the  Desboroughs',  I 
felt  I  cared  for  her  more  than  I  did  for  any  other  woman,  and  it 
was  frightfully  hard  for  me  to  seem  indifferent.  And  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  but "  (averting  his  face,  on  which  the  color  is 
deepening  visibly)  "  Heaven  knows  I  am  not  the  least  worthy  of 
it,  but  I  don't  think  she  ever  had  a  thought  of  love  for  any  one 
but  me," 

Lady  Montagu  looked  at  her  handsome  son  with  all  her 
mother's  pride  and  love  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  any  woman  could  help  loving  you,"  she 
said,  fondly. 

Charlie,  evading  her  flattery,  went  on  quickly: 

"  I  never  spoke  to  you  about  it  before,  because  it  seemed 
heartless  to  think  about  being  happy  so  soon,  and  marrying  the 
girl  he  loved,  poor  fellow;  but  he  was  really  in  earnest  about  it: 
he  seemed  most  anxious,  and  said  she  knew  all  his  wishes  about 
the  estate  and  the  poor.  And  I,  being  afraid  of  forgetting  too 
soon,  have,  I  am  afraid,  behaved  like  a  brute  to  the  poor  little 
thing,  and  she  thinks  I  don't  care  for  her,  and  has  gone  off 
abroad  somewhere." 

"You  are  not  thinking  of  going  abroad,  Charlie?"  cried  his 
mother.  "  You  will  not,  unless  you  want  to  break  my  heart." 

Then  he  explained  to  her  all  that  had  happened,  and,  after 
much  coaxing,  persuasion,  and  reassuring,  wrung  from  her  a 
most  reluctant  consent  to  his  following  Diana.  It  was  a  hard 
task;  but  he  was  bent  upon  going,  and  the  poor  mother  yielded 
when  she  saw  it  was  useless  to  resist. 

The  next  day  Sir  Charles  was  at  Eton  with  Curly. 

"  But  Di  said  I  must  not,"  answered  the  lad,  ruefully,  in  an- 
swer to  his  friend's  appeal.  "  You  know  I'd  do  an3rthing  in  the 
world  for  you,  but  Di  said  if  I  loved  her  I  was  not  to  let  you 
know  where  she  was." 

Sir  Charles  proceeded  to  tell  him  as  much  as  he  thought  nec- 
essary to  convince  him  that  his  sister  would  bear  him  no  malice 
for  the  breach  of  faith. 

"  But,"  persisted  Curly,  more  embarrassed  still  by  this  aspect 
of  affairs,  "  I  gave  Seldpn  my  word  of  honor  to  do  all  I  could  to 
persuade  Di  to  marry  him;  and  if  I  help  you  I  shall  be  breaking 
my  word  to  him." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  answered  Charlie,  laughing,  "  Seldon  has 
about  as  much  chance  of  marrying  your  sister  as  you  have  of 
marrying  the  Princess  Beatrice." 

Curly,  at  last  persuaded,  revealed  that  his  father  had  written 
him  to  direct  to  them  at  the  Post-Restante,  Geneva,  on  the 
23d,  and  that  they  were  traveling  with  the  Fanes.  Then  the 
two  bade  each  other  farewell,  and  Curly  went  back  to  Eton, 
feeling  rather  Judas-like  with  his  future  'brother's  magnificent 
tip.  Sir  Charles  went  back  to  tewn  and  made  arrangements  for 


258  DIANA    CAREW. 

his  journey.  There  was  no  foreign  leave  to  get  now,  thank 
Heaven;  he  had  sold  out  of  the  guards,  and  was  of  the  opinion 
that  most  men  are,  or  profess  to  be,  before  and  after  giving  up 
what  has  hitherto  been  the  pride  of  their  lives — that  "  the  serv- 
ice" was  "  going  to  the  dogs."  He  was  not  particularly  pleased 
at  the  thought  of  Rochester  Fane  being  Diana's  traveling  com- 
panion: he  remembered  with  anything  but  satisfaction  how  at- 
tentive he  had  been  to  her  at  the  Warringtons',  and  with  what 
friendliness  she  had  received  and  accepted  his  attentions. 

Suppose  that,  bitterly  hurt  and  indignant  at  his  own  treatment 
of  her,  she  had  consoled  herself  with  Fane's  love;  for  it  did  not 
seem  possible  to  Charlie's  now,  infatuated  as  he  was  becoming 
about  her,  that  a  man  could  be  long  in  her  sweet  society  with- 
out making  love  to  her.  Suppose  he  should  arrive  too  late.  The 
thought  put  him  into  a  fever.  He  had  not  received  Diana's  let- 
ter for  eight  days  after  it  was  written,  because  of  the  uncertainty 
of  his  own  movements,  and,  owing  to  this  unlucky  accident,  all 
this  valuable  time  had  been  lost. 

Arrived  at  Geneva,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  tracing  them.  The 
polite  landlord  informed  him  they  were  expected  back  from  the 
Voirons  the  following  day.  But  that  was  not  good  enough  for 
Charlie,  in  his  hot  haste;  he  ordered  a  carriage  and  started  at 
once  in  pursuit.  And  so  it  happened  that  while  Diana  was 
breaking  her  poor  little  heart  on  the  mountain-top,  he  was  toil- 
ing up  the  steep  ascent,  guided  by  an  urchin  from  the  village, 
being  far  too  impatient  to  wait  until  a  horse  was  unyoked  from 
the  plow,  and  rather  preferring  to  trust  his  own  legs  to  get  him 
to  the  top.  Mr.  Adams,  his  "  gentleman,"  who  accompanied 
him,  was  furious,  and  swore  to  himself  with  a  bitter  oath,  as  he 
toiled  and  stumbled  after  his  active  master  up  the  mountain's 
side,  that  if  Sir  Charles  had  another  such  freak  as  this,  he'd  be 
blanked  thrice  over  if  he  didn't  give  up  the  situation,  good  as  it 
was. 

The  ex-guardsman  was  a  curious  mixture  of  energy  and  in- 
dolence; he  could  endure  any  amount  of  hardship  an  i  fatigue, 
but  he  would  have  considered  it  an  insufferable  exertion  to  pack 
his  own  clothes  or  shave  himself.  It  is  just  possible  that  this 
was  a  remnant  of  swagger  begun  in  early  life  and  grown  into 
habit.  Anyhow,  Mr.  Adams  toiled  and  panted  and  blasphemed 
after  him  as  well  as  he  might,  and  tried  rather  unsuccessfully  to 
assume  a  cheerful  smile  when  Sir  Charles  now  and  then  turned, 
with  laughing  good-nature,  to  ask  how  he  was  getting  on. 

The  first  person  Sir  Charles  saw  on  reaching  the  summit  was 
Mr.  Carew,  who,  as  may  be  imagined,  received  him  with  scant 
cordiality.  But,  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation  in  private, 
everything  was  satisfactorily  explained,  and  glad  enough  was 
Di's  father  to  bid  him  •' Godspeed,"  as  he  directed  him  to  the 
spot  where  he  was  most  likely  to  find  her. 

His  heart  beats  as  it  has  never  beaten  before  as  he  sees  the 
slight,  graceful  form  he  knows  so  well  flying  before  him.  There 
is  no  languor  in  his  step  or  face  as  he  strides  after  her,  feeling  in 
his  excitement  no  more  fatigue  after  his  unwonted  exertion  than 
if  he  had  strolled  up  St.  James'  Street.  In  a  moment  he  is  call- 


DIANA    CARE\V.  259 

ing  her  by  name,  his  arms  are  around  her,  he  is  raining  impas- 
sioned kisses  upon  her  lips.  She  does  not  resist  him,  as  perhaps 
a  girl  who  had  been  kissed  by  half  a  dozen  men  might  have 
done.,  with  a  show  of  virtue  a  little  too  conscious  to  be  real;  this 
is  the  one  love  of  her  fresh,  pure  heart,  into  which  no  thought  of 
any  other  man  has  ever  crept;  why,  then,  should  she  affect  to 
shrink  from  him,  when  it  is  such  utter  happiness  to  be  near 
him? 

"  My  own  little  darling,"  he  whispers,  presently,  still  feasting 
his  happy  eyes  on  her  dear  face,  "  how  could  you  think  hardly 
of  me  if  you  care  for  me?  Did  you  not  feel  that  I  loved  you 
all  the  time,  even  though  I  was  compelled  to  seem  indifferent  ?" 

"  No,"  answers  Diana,  truthfully.  "  I  did  not  think  you  cared 
for  nie.  Oh  "  (with  a  little  touching  sigh),  "  do  you  think  I  could 
ever  have  pretended  not  to  love  you  f 

"  My  darling,"  says  the  young  man,  tenderly,  "  I  wonder  how 
on  earth  I  ever  came  to  be  so  lucky  as  to  be  loved  by  such  a  little 
angel  ?" 

Diana's  face  dimples  with  happy  smiles. 

"  You  wonder,"  she  says,  with  an  air  of  sweet  conviction. 
"  Nay,  it  is  I  who  should  wonder  how  you  came  to  care  for 
me." 

As  she  lifts  her  loving,  radiant  eyes  to  his  face  a  strange  re- 
morse comes  over  him. 

"  I  have  been  a  worthless,  selfish  fellow  all  my  life,"  he  says, 
"  but''  (with  passionate  earnestness)  "  I  swear  to  Heaven  to  be 
something  worthier  before  I  die." 

When,  a  long  time  after,  though  it  seems  but  a  few  moments 
to  them,  they  are  sauntering  reluctantly  back  to  the  hotel, 
Diana  stops,  and  glances  lingeriiigly  down  the  peaceful  valley  at 
the  blue  lake,  lying  like  a  bright  mirror  mountain-framed,  at  the 
harnlets  with  little  church-spires  looking  heavenward  out  of 
each. 

"  And  to-day,"  she  says,  half  to  him,  half  to  herself,  "  only  to- 
day I  envied  any  human  soul  down  in  that  valley  by  contrast  to 
my  own  wretchedness;  and  now  "  (raising  her  rapt,  lovely  eyes 
to  his  face)  (1 1  pity  every  one  so  who  is  not  me!" 

What  sweeter  flattery  could  the  vainest  man  in  Christendom 
desire  ? 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

DIANA'S  STORY. 

How  poor  words  are,  how  all  inadequate  to  express  the  great 
joys  and  sorrows  of  our  lives!  Is  it  not  proof  of  this  that  when 
we  are  (how  rarely!)  overtaken  by  great  gladness,  we  say  we  are 
unutterably  happy?  if  we  want  to  describe  anything,  either  of 
pleasure  or  pain,  transcending  the  common  limits  of  every-day 
experience,  we  are  reduced  to  saying,  "words  fail  to  express," 
etc.  Is  there  some  language  among  the  dead  ones  in  which  by- 
gone ages  could  pour  out  the  torrent  of  their  joys  and  woes  with- 
out being  hampered  by  the  paucity  of  superlatives  which  afflicts 
me  at  this  moment  ?  I  give  it  ap.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy 


260  DIANA    CAREW. 

I  am — so  happy  that  a  vein  of  fear  runs  through  my  gladness 
that  such  utter  bliss  cannot  last.  It  is  no  dream;  I  am  wide, 
wide  awake,  and  Charlie  is  sitting  opposite  to  me.  He  wished  to 
sit  next  me,  but  I  begged  him  to  sit  opposite  instead,  though 
I  was  too  shy  to  tell  him  why.  It  is  because  I  want  to  see  him, 
to  feast  my  eyes  on  his  face  with  my  old  insatiable  love  of  good 
looks. 

And  now  I  need  never  again  steal  furtive  glances  at  the  bright 
debonair  face.  I  may  fix  my  eyes  upon  it  without  dropping 
them  g  uiltily  when  they  meet  his.  Are  the  rest  of  the  party 
cheerful  and  merry,  I  wonder?  I  hardly  know:  our  spirits  are 
so  exuberant,  after  our  long  famine  of  mirth,  that  if  none  of 
the  others  unclosed  their  lips,  it  must  needs  have  seemed  a 
cheery  gathering.  Papa  looks  very  bright,  I  remark:  is  it  from 
the  contagion  of  my  happiness,  or  from  some  secret  gladness  of 
his  own  ?  Ah,  I  can  wish  him  joy  now,  without  the  shadow  of 
a  selfish  regret  creeping  in  to  mar  the  genuineness  of  my  sym- 
pathy. My  father  naturally  seems  older  to  me  than  any  other 
man  of  the  same  age,  but,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  there  is 
hardly  more  difference  between  his  age  and  Claire's  than  between 
Charlie's  and  mine. 

Claire  comes  running  into  my  room  just  before  dinner. 

"  My  dear,"  she  whispers,  her  pretty  face  beaming  with  kind- 
ness and  congratulation,  "how  glad  I  am  at  your  happiness! 
Did  I  not  tell  you  to  trust,  and  all  would  be  well?" 

"  Ah,  Claire,"  I  cry,  flinging  my  arms  round  her,  "  I  can't  tell 
you  how  utterly  happy  I  am.  Was  there  ever  any  one  in  this 
world  so  fortunate  as  I  ?  I  am  quite  sorry  I  abused  the  poor 
world,  when  it  is,  after  all,  the  happiest,  delightfulest  place  one 
can  imagine." 

"  Do  not  forget,  dearest,  where  all  your  thanks  are  due,"  she 
says,  softly,  and  kissing  me  once  again  heartily,  goes  out.  /  do 
not  forget !  On  my  knees  I  am  thanking  God  with  all  the  in- 
tensity of  which  my  heart  is  capable  for  His  exceeding  goodness 
to  me.  There  is  one  person  who  does  not  seem  quite  to  share 
the  general  gladness.  This  is  Colonel  Fane.  He  is  preoccupied 
at  dinner,  and  goes  off  alone  afterward  with  his  cigar.  It  is  a 
glorious  moonlight  night.  Charlie  and  I  wander  back  to  the 
place  of  our  meeting.  Ah,  what  anight! — anight  to  live  over 
again  in  memory  all  the  nights  of  one's  life,  if  one  lived  to  be 
as  old  as  Methuselah,  sure,  quite  sure,  that  even  in  the  longest, 
happiest  life  there  could  never  come  two  such.  Dark,  pine-clad 
mountains  standing  out  against  the  sapphire  sky,  bright  waters 
flashing  back  the  moon's  streaming  silver,  nightingales  answer- 
ing each  other  from  tree  to  tree,  and  my  hands  clasped  upon 
the  arm  of  the  one  man  the  world  has  ever  held,  will  ever  hold, 
for  me.  And  this  time  last  night — nay,  only  five  short  hours 
<'igo — he  seemed  as  far  removed  from  me,  as  unattainable,  as 
that  glorious  evening  star  yonder. 

"  Little  darling,"  says  the  voice  of  my  beloved,  presently, 
"are  you  quite  sure  you  have  nothing  on  your  conscience  to 
confess  to  me  ?" 


DIAXA     CAREW.  261 

"  On  my  conscience!"  I  repeat,  slowly  turning  my  willing  and 
most  guiltless  eyes  to  his. 

The  mere  sound  of  his  voice  is  delightful  to  me,  even  if  it 
\vere  propunding  the  Sphinx's  riddle.  That  doesnot  seem  much 
more  impossible  to  guess  than  his  present  meaning. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  with  a  little  jealous  accent  that  de- 
lights me — "  are  you  quite  sure  you  have  not  been  flirting  just  a 
very  little  bit  with  Fane  ?" 

"  //"  I  answer,  in  a  tone  wherein  astonishment  and  reproach 
do  battle  royal  for  victory. 

';  Little  darling,  of  course  I  know  you  did  not,"  he  answers, 
hastily;  "  only  he  is  evidently  most  confoundedly  put  out  by  my 
appearance  on  the  scene.  Did  you  not  notice  how  glum  and  si- 
lent he  was  at  dinner?  Such  a  cheery  fellow  as  he  is  usually." 

"  Absurd!"  I  answer,  with  scorn.  "  Colonel  Fane  looks  upon 
me  as  a  brother." 

"  Oh,  does  he?"  answers  my  lover,  with  an  amused  smile. 
"  You  little  innocent  child  "  (taking  my  face  between  his  hands 
and  looking  straight  into  my  eyes),  ''I  think  a  man  would  be 
puzzled  to  be  with  you  long  and  keep  up  that  useful  little  fiction 
of  fraternal  feeling." 

He  is  quite  mistaken  in  his  supposition;  but  it  pleases  me, 
since  <t  shows  the  value  he  sets  upon  me — pleases  me  far  better 
than  if  it  were  true.  I  never  want  to  know  the  pain  again  of 
being  loved  by  a  man  to  whose  affection  I  can  make  no  return. 

It  is  decided  that  we  are  still  to  continue  our  Swiss  trip,  but 
to  be  at  home  again  by  the  time  Curly  leaves  Eton,  instead  of  his 
joining  us  abroad,  as  had  been  proposed  when  the  thought  of  re- 
turning to  Carew  Court  had  been  so  hateful  to  me.  I  shall  al- 
ways love  Switzerland  better  than  any  country  save  my  own — 
not  for  the  sake  of  her  beauty  only,  but  in  memory  of  the  happy 
days  I  spent  on  her  glorious  heights,  in  her  tranquil  valleys,  on 
her  blue  lakes,  by  her  silver  streams,  in  her  quaint  old  towns.  I 
know  not  when  or  where  I  was  the  happiest,  if  it  was  gliding 
along  the  lakes,  with  the  red  sunset  kindling  the  water  into 
flame  and  purpling  the  mountain  sides;  in  the  delicious  Vevay 
gardens,  listening  to  the  entrancing  strains  of  the  string  band; 
driving  along  the  lovely  valley  of  the  Arve,  where  the  water 
leaps  flashing  against  the  sunshine,  at  Chamouni,  in  glorious 
sight  of  the  great  snow-king,  standing  against  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
among  the  lovely  scenery  from  Argentiers  to  Martigny,  with  its 
wealth  of  wild  flowers  and  ferns,  crystal  streams,  luxuriant 
trees,  and  distant  view  of  the  sharp  aiguilles,  with  their  myoso- 
tis-colored  background.  Every  scene  is  indelibly  fixed  on  my 
mind,  every  spot  we  visited — the  ice-caves,  green  and  trans- 
parent as  oiir  English  seas  at  calm,  the  awe-striking  George  de 
Trient,  where  I  fell  into  a  panic  lest  we  two,  in  the  zenith  of  our 
happiness,  should  be  ingulfed  in  the  black  seething  waters; 
sweet  Lucerne,  peaceful  Interlachen,  pretty,  picturesque  Thun. 
quaint  old  Berne,  Ouches.  Lausanne — all  the  lovely  haunts  of  fair 
Helvetia.  We  were  early  in  the  season,  and  did  not  meet  many 
of  our  own  country  people — a  chance  bride  and  bridegroom, 
generally  French  or  German,  whom  we  regarded,  Charles  and  I, 


262  DIANA    CAREW. 

with  furtive  sympathy,  a  few  Americans,  pretty,  well  chaussees 
and  well  dressed,  and  a  few  Russians.  Everywhere  we  go,  my 
generous  lover  insists  upon  heaping  me  with  presents,  until  al 
last  I  rebel. 

"Don't  think  me  ungracious,''  I  plead,  "  but  when  you  give 
me  all  these  beautiful  things  which  I  have  not  been  used  to,  and 
don't  want,  it  makes  me  quite  unhappy.  If"  (with  a  slight  ac- 
cent of  reproach)  "  I  did  not  care  for  you,  and  you  were  trying 
to  win  me  over  by  gifts,  there  might  be  something  in  it,  but 

when  you  know "  And  my  eyes,  to  spare  the  modesty  of  my 

lips,  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Little  darling,"  he  says,  in  answer,  "  don't  you  think  it's 
rather  selfish  of  you  to  deprive  me  of  the  greatest  pleasure  I 
have  in  the  world  ?" 

That  journey,  than  which  none  was  ever  more  sadly  begun, 
more  triumphantly  concluded,  comes  to  an  end  at  last.  We  are 
on  English  shores  and  in  London.  Charlie  and  I  separate  with 
bitter  reluctance,  though  it  is  only  for  a  week  or  two,  whilst  he 
joins  his  mother  and  brings  her  back  to  Alford.  When  Curly 
has  gone  back  to  Eton  for  his  last  term,  I  am  to  go  to  Alford 
for  a  short  visit,  and  in  October  we  are  to  be  married 

"  It  seems  an  eternity  to  October,1'  he  grumbles;  "  but  of 
course  you  are  right;  we  must  not  seem  to  have  forgotten  poor 
Hector.''  And  a  shadow  comes  across  his  clear  brow. 

Curly  is  delighted,  when  he  has  shaken  off  one  or  two  loyal 
regrets  for  his  friend  Lord  Seldon. 

"  I  think  he's  getting  over  it,''  he  whispers  to  me,  with  a 
sagacious  nod.  "  I  introduced  him  this  Eton  and  Harrow  match 
to  one  of  Archdale's  sisters  — Viola,  the  dark  one;  and  consider- 
ing that  he  swore  he'd  never  have  anything  to  do  with  a  woman 
again,  he  seemed  to  be  getting  on  pretty  well.  One  thing,  he 
had  the  right  one  to  help  him;  he  won't  ask  Miss  Viola  to  share 
his  coronet  in  vain.  Oh,  Di!  how  could  you  be  such  a  little 
donkey?  Not  but  what  Charlie's  a  stunning  good  fellow;  only  I 
should  have  liked  to  see  you  a  duchess.  And  the  dad  too — only 
fancy  the  dad  getting  spooney  at  his  time  of  life!"  (for  Claire  has 
consented  to  marry  papa  when  I  have  left  the  old  home).  "  I'm 
rather  glad  as  it  has  turned  out.  She's  so  awfully  sweet  and 
good,  Claire,  she  won't  be  trying  to  set  the  dad  against  us,  like 
most  stepmothers  would.  And  then,"  adds  Curly,  practically, 
"  that  five  hundred  a  year  of  hers  will  be  very  useful  to  them; 
it  isn't  as  if  she  had  nothing;  and  the  old  place  would  have  been 
awfully  dull  without  a  woman." 

I  am  going  to  divide  my  three  hundred  a  year  between  papa 
and  Curly,  for  Charlie  refuses  to  have  me  as  a  dowered  bride,  in 
however  small  a  degree,  and  I  — I  love  to  owe  everything  to 
him.  So  he  has  combated  my  father's  and  brother's  objec- 
tions, and  insists  upon  having  his  own  way  in  this  matter,  at  all 
events. 

My  first  meeting  with  Lady  Montagu  is  a  painful  one — we 
both  cry  floods  of  tears;  but,  after  we  have  been  together  a  few 
days,  she  steals  behind  me,  and,  taking  my  head  between  her 


DIAXA    CAREW.  263 

small  white  fingers,  she  kisses  it,  and  in  a  tone  tremulous  with 
emotion,  whispers: 

"  Do  not  think,  my  child,  that  I  love  you  the  less  because  my 
manner  has  been  a  little  constrained  to  ward  you  lately.  I  could 
not  quite  forget "  (with  a  sob)  "  poor  Hector.  But  there  is  no 
one  in  the  world  I  should  love  so  much  to  have  for  a  daughter." 

My  wedding-day  has  come;  it  dawns  clear  and  bright,  with  an 
Italian  sky,  and  the  glorious  warmth  of  July.  Gay  is  radiant  at 
this  auspicious  omen.  "  Happy  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines 
on!"  she  chirps,  over  and  over  again,  as,  with  loving  fingers 
whose  alacrity  is  a  little  delayed  by  joyful  agitation,  she  appar- 
els me  in  my  bridal  gear.  The  new  maid  is  not  allowed  to  lay 
one  finger  upon  nie  so  long  as  I  am  Diana  Carew.  I  am  Gay's 
own  child,  that  she  has  brought  up  from  my  very  tenderest  youth. 
and  no  one,  she  and  I  resolve,  shall  supersede  her  so  long  as  I 
am  still  the  child  of  the  house.  Gay  is  in  raptures,  then,  because 

the  sun  shines,  but  I The  sun  can  add  no  joy  to  mine;  a 

deluge  could  hardly  take  from  it;  but  of  course  it  is  far  better 
that  everything  should  go  smqpthly  and  auspiciously. 

It  is  to  be  a  very  quiet  wedding,  no  one  but  ourselves — papa, 
Lady  Montagu,  Curly,  Claire  (Colonel  Fane  is  away),  and  Lord 
Rexborough,  who  is  to  be  best  man.  He  and  I  are  tremendous 
friends  since  Curly 's  accident.  I  understand  him  so  much  bet- 
ter, and  his  manner  is  so  far  gentler  and  less  rough  than  it  used 
to  be.  I  confess  frankly  to  having  misjudged  him;  he  has  a 
thoroughly  kind  heart  under  that  rough  exterior,  which  was 
more  affected  than  natural.  I  verily  believe. 

The  sun  shines  with  a  hearty  good  will  upon  us,  shines  in  a 
flood  through  the  stained  window  over  the  altar,  and  plays  a 
thousand  pranks  with  my  white  attire,  decking  it  with  vivid, 
unbride-like  blue  and  red,  green  and  gold.  But  I  am  so  confi- 
dent of  my  future  happiness  that  I  would  have  gone  to  church 
clad  in  black  from  head  to  foot  with  profound  indifference. 
There  are  no  other  wedding  guests,  save  my  poor,  who  have  col- 
lected in  force  at  the  lower  end  of  the  church,  and  in  the  church- 
yard. As  I  go  out  leaning  on  the  arm  of  my  husband,  of  whom 
I  feel  so  utterly,  unspeakably  proud,  they  press  forward  with, 
hearty  blessings  and  good  will.  The  unbidden  tears  rush  to  niy 
eyes,  these  sincere  good  wishes  seem  better  worth  having  to  me 
than  the  congratulations  of  half  a  dozen  of  dukes  and  duchesses. 

They  are  to  have  a  dinner  when  we  are  gone,  which  will  be  as 
soon  after  the  wedding  as  I  can  put  off  my  bride's  dress  and  don 
my  traveling-garb,  for  we  are  going  up  to  town  on  the  two 
o'clock  train,  and  have  to  drive  six  miles  to  the  station. 

Dearly  as  I  love  my  husband,  fearlessly  as  I  face  the  unknown 
future  with  him,  how  can  I  yet  leave  the  dad  and  my  boy  with- 
out a  twinge  of  the  keenest  pain?  I  have  kept  up  bravely  until 
now,  have  wished  every  one  good-bye  with  ready  smiles,  but 
now  that  it  comes  to  those  two  my  eyes  are  dim,  my  voice  fal- 
ters. Have  I  not  lived  all  the  years  of  my  life  with  my  father  ? 
have  we  not  shaded  our  cares  and  loved  each  other  with  the 
heartiest  love  wherewith  a  father  and  child  can  love  ?  Never 
has  one  of  us  harbored  an  unkind  thought  of  the  other,  never 


264  DIANA     CAREW. 

has  a  cross  word  passed  his  lips  to  me,  nor  a  petulant  one  mine 
to  him.  And  our  boy,  whom  we  have  loved  with  all  our  hearts, 
whom  our  prayers  and  tears  have  brought  back  from  the  door? 
of  death!  How  can  I  leave  these  two  without  emotion?  I  can 
not.  Tears  blind  my  eyes,  sobs  choke  my  throat,  as  I  throw  my 
arms  first  round  one,  then  the  other;  and  their  eyes,  too,  though 
with  manly  shame  they  try  hard  to  smile,  their  eyes  are  dim, 
their  dear  voices  that  bid  me  such  hearty  "God -speed"  quiver 
and  tremble;  and  I,  the  happiest,  proudest  woman  in  England, 
am  helped  into  the  carriage  by  the  man  I  love  with  all  my 
heart,  in  floods  of  tears,  as  though  I  were  the  saddest,  unwilling- 
est  bride  in  the  world. 

"  Little  darling,"  whispers  my  handsome  husband,  as  we 
drive  away— he  always  calls  me  thus;  he  does  not  like  my  name 
— "  you  shall  never  have  any  cause  for  tears  that  I  can  prevent, 
I  swear.  Look  at  me;  tell  me  you  are  not  afraid  to  trust  the 
future  with  me." 

I  look  into  his  deep-blue  eyes  and  smile  through  my  tears.  If 
but  half  of  the  great  love  and  confidence  I  have  in  him  is 
written  in  mine,  he  must  needs  be  content  with  what  he  reads. 

I  thinks  he  is. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 
NOT    TOLD    BY    DIANA. 

CHRISTMAS  week— a  genuine  old-fashioned  Christmas — a  white 
•world  without,  blazing  fires  and  holly- wreaths  within,  a  larder 
stacked  to  defy  the  ravages  of  hunger  among  a  good-sized  gar- 
rison, signs  of  prosperity  and  plenty  everywhere.  Christmas  is 
evidently  going  to  be  kept  at  Alford;  the  Yule  logs  are  ready 
lor  burning,  plum-puddings  have  been  made  for  the  million, 
and  the  tokens  of  festival  that  are  wont  to  gladden  the  hearts  of 
boys  and  girls  home  from  school  abound.  It  is  riot  that  the 
house-party  is  intended  to  be  a  very  large  one,  but  this  year  the 
poor  have  been  thought  of  with  bounteous  memory,  and  the 
chief  part  of  the  gallant  array  of  stores  is  destined  to  find  its 
way  into  multitudinous  humble  homes,  where  it  will  boundlessly 
rejoice  and  warm  the  hearts  of  the  recipients.  Still,  there  is  to 
be  a  party  at  the  Court,  and,  if  not  a  gay  one,  still  a.  very  cheery 
one,  Mr.  Carewand  his  new  wife  are  coming;  Curly,  of  course, 
and  Colonel  Fane,  Lord  Rexborough,  and  a  Miss  Montagu, 
cousin  to  Sir  Charles.  Lady  Montagu  (not  the  pale  delicate  lady 
we  have  hitherto  known  by  that  name — the  dowager  now,  but  a 
lovely,  graceful  young  woman,  whose  name  is  Diana),  Lady 
Montagu  has  busied  herself  all  the  morning  with  tripping  into 
each  room  prepared  for  the  reception  of  visitors,  placing  flowers 
there  which  she  has  arranged  with  her  own  fair  hands,  and 
casting  thoughtful  glances  around  to  see  that  nothing  is  want- 
ing for  the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  the  coming  guests.  Curly's 
room  is  her  special  care  and  delight;  she  never  wearies  of  steal- 
ing in  to  look  at  that.  There  hang  his  favorite  pictures,  the 
books  he  loves,  with  many  new  treasures  that  her  loving  care 
has  placed  there.  For  in  the  future  she  means  Alford  to  be  as 


DIANA    CAREW.  265 

much  his  home  as  Carew  Court;  as  much,  not  more,  for  her 
father's  sake. 

Happiness  is  certainly  vastly  improving.  Diana  was  always 
pretty  and  gracious-mannered,  but  now,  radiant  with  love  and 
happiness,  she  may  well  be  called,  as  she  often  is,  as  her  husband 
thinks  her,  lovely.  Perhaps  the  elegant  and  costly  attire  with 
which  Sir  Charles  insists  upon  her  being  adorned  has  something 
to  do  with  the  enhancement  of  her  beauty.  I,  for  one,  agree 
with  Tennyson  when  he  says: 

"  Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old." 

To  say  that  Sir  Charles  and  his  wife  are  still  the  most  doting 
lovers  is  not  to  say  much  for  a  two-month's-old  marriage.  I 
may  tell  of  the  past,  but  dare  I  predict  what  is  in  store  for  them  ? 
—and  yet  I  have  immense  faith  in  their  happiness  in  the  future. 
Diana  is  fair  and  loving,  and  good  as  she  is  fair;  and  he  is  gen- 
erous, good-hearted,  sweet-tempered,  and  he  adores  her.  For 
once  the  oft-qtioted  French  proverb  would  be  out  of  place,  "  De 
deux  aniants  il  y  a  toujours  un  qui  baiseet  un  qui  tend  la  joue," 
although  it  might  have  been  true  enough  once. 

Diana  is  beloved  by  every  one,  from  her  mother-in-law,  who 
thinks  there  is  no  one  like  her,  to  the  magnate  of  the  servants' 
hall,  unambitious  of  a  new  mistress,  Mrs.  Bishop.  But  even  her 
golden  opinions  have  been  won  by  the  fair  young  chatelaine, 
and  she  has  not  a  word  for  her  but  what  is  favorable  and  admir- 
ing. Outside,  in  the  parish,  she  has  already  begun  the  work  of 
which  she  and  Hector  had  talked  so  often  in  the  old  days.  She 
goes  even  further;  she  makes  it  her  business  to  know  the  wants 
and  sorrows  of  her  new  people;  in  her  own  immense  happiness 
and  prosperity  she  does  not  forget  those  whom  Providence  has 
lees  endowed;  and  from  her  husband  she  has  carte-blanche  for 
her  charities.  Diana  is  quite  to  be  trusted;  she  is  prudent  if  she 
is  generous;  she  does  not  think  charity  consists  in  giving  indis- 
criminately to  all  who  ask,  and  she  knows,  too,  how  a  little 
sympathy,  a  few  kind  words,  ofttimes  makes  a  small  gift  of  more 
value  to  the  receiver  than  a  large  one,  sent  coldly  and  without 
interest,  through  a  servant. 

The  Dowager  Lady  Montagu  proposed  to  leave  the  Court  after 
her  son's  marriage  and  take  up  her  abode  at  the  Dower  House; 
but  her  children  ridiculed  the  idea,  utterly.  They  had  vowed  to 
each  other  to  make  the  rest  of  her  life  happy  and  serene-  she 
was  never  to  know  another  care;  she  should  be  as  much  mother 
to  Diana  as  to  Charlie.  She  had  her  own  suit  of  rooms,  and. 
delicate  of  intruding  upon  the  happiness  of  thenouveaitxmaries, 
she  would  shut  herself  up  too  much  alone;  so,  when  she  would 
not  be  prevailed  upon  to  come  to  them,  they  simplified  matters 
by  going  to  her. 

It  is  noon  of  the  day  before  Christmas.  Diana,  having  put  the 
finishing  touches  to  all  the  rooms,  opines  that  she  will  make  her 
toilette  de  reception  before  lunch.  The  guests  are  all  to  arrive 
between  two  and  three,  and  she  has  been  especially  desired  to 
make  herself  "  lovely."  Not  one  of  the  party  have  seen  her 
since  she  was  borne  from  their  sight  in  a  flood  ©f  tears  on  her 


266  DIANA    CAREW. 

wedding-day.     Sir  Charles  often  twits  her  laughingly  with  this 
episode. 

"  I  never  felt  so  small  in  my  life,"  he  is  wont  to  declare,  "  as 
when  I  carried  you  off  bathed  in  tears  from  the  arms  of  your 
agonized  relatives." 

Diana  does  not  like  to  be  reminded  of  her  weakness,  and  puts 
her  little  white  hand  before  his  mouth. 

"It  is  quite  true,  little  darling,"  he  insists,  kissing  it.  "I  be- 
lieve you  were  awfully  sorry  when  it  came  to  going  off  with  me, 
and  leaving  everybody  behind  but  the  pug." 

The  finishing-touch  is  being  put  to  Lady  Montagu's  toilet  when 
Sir  Charles  comes  in.  The  maid  discreetly  vanishes. 

"  Little  darling,"  says  the  sovereign  of  Diana's  heart,  coming 
toward  her  after  having  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door  to  take 
in  every  detail,  for  he  is  a  perfect  connoisseur  of  the  art  of  dress, 
' '  you  look  positively  lovely  I  I  am  afraid  "  (coming  a  little  nearer) 
"to  touch  you." 

"  Do  not  be,"  she  answers,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  blushing 
cheeks  (she  has  not  quite  lost  that  embarrassing  old  habit):  and 
as  she  speaks  she  twines  both  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  puts 
up  her  sweet  red  lips  to  be  kissed, 

"  You  will  make  quite  a  sensation  next  season,"  he  predicts. 
"  You  know,  little  darling,  you  really  are  a  much  prettier 
woman  than  when  I  married  you.  I  am  longing  for  them  all  to 
see  you.  I  know  they  will  say  so,  every  one  of  them.  No  tears 
to-day,  mind;  no  red  eyes  and  pink  noses." 

"  Tears!"  she  retorts,  with  happy  scorn:  "why  should  there  be 
tears  when  we  are  all  meeting  f 

"  Next  September,"  says  Sir  Charles,  "we  will  have  the  cheer- 
iest parties  in  the  world — a  happy  mixture  of  guardsmen  and 
pretty  women — no  dowager  except  the  mother." 

"  You  won't  want  to  have  the  Desboroughs,  will  you,  darling?" 
asks  Diana,  coaxingly. 

"  At  all  events,  we  will  not  ask  the  heiress,"  he  answers  gayly, 
"  You  shall  have  no  cause  for  jealousy." 

Diana  laughs.  Then,  twining  her  hands  round  her  husband's 
arm,  and  looking  up  into  his  handsome  face: 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  says,  with  an  air  of  sweet  conviction,  "  I 
can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  her?  I  am  sorry  for  every  woman 
who  has  not  got  you." 

"  Little  flatterer,"  he  says,  putting  his  arms  round  her,  "  what 
answer  do  you  expect  me  to  make  to  your  barefaced  compli- 
ments? All  the  same,  I  must  say"  (laughing)  "you  are  un- 
necessarily liberal  of  sympathy  for  your  sex.  The  heiress  apart, 
I  don't  know  of  any  other  very  anxious  aspirant  to  my  charms. 
Come,  and  show  yourself  to  the  mother." 

Leaning  on.  Sir  Charles'  arm,  Lady  Montagu  traverses  the 
oaken  gallery.  Her  maid  and  the  upper  housemaid  are  peeping 
after  them  from  a  half-open  door. 

"  Aren't  they  a  lovely  couple?"  whispers  the  maid. 

"  Yes,"  sighs  the  upper-housemaid.  She  has  long  been  the 
victim  of  a  secret  passion  for  her  handsome  young  master.  She 


DIANA    CAREW.  267 

is  stout  and  middle-aged,  but  none  the  less  shares  Diana's  pas- 
sion for  good  looks. 

The  Dowager  Lady  Montagu  greets  her  children  with  a  fond 
smile  as  they  enter  her  boudoir,  still  arm  in  arm. 

"  Is  not  this  a  ravishing  toilet,  little  mother?"  asks  Sir  Charles, 
bringing  his  wife  forward  and  regarding  her  with  eyes  of  fond- 
est admiration. 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  replied  the  dowager,  with  unfeigned  admira- 
tion. "  I  must  not  tell  you  what  I  think,  my  love"  (to  Diana), 
"  or  I  should  make  you  vain." 

"  Fine  feathers."  laughs  Diana,  gayly,  who  is  not  above  feel- 
ing the  sweetness  of  genuine  flattery.  ' '  I  think  I  am  rather  a 
fine  bird  just  now,  mamma.  Your  rival  is  coming  to-day  "  (stoop- 
ing to  kiss  the  elder  lady's  delicate  cheek).  "Fancy  my  being 
so  rich  all  at  once:  a  little  while  ago  I  had  no  mother,  and  now 
I  have  two.'' 

"Claire  is  my  mother  too,"  says  Sir  Charles,  laughing.  "I 
shall  make  a  point  of  calling  her  by  her  new  title." 

"  If  you  please,  Sir  Charles,  Hawkins  would  be  glad  to  speak 
to  you,"  says  Simkins,  appearing  in  the  doorway. 

"  All  right;  I  will  be  with  him  directly."  And  presently  the 
young  man  goes  out. 

"  By  the  way,  my  dear  ,"  observes  the  Dowager  Lady  Montagu 
to  her  daughter,  when  the  door  closes  upon  Sir  Charles,  "  I  have 
just  found  something  that  must,  I  think,  be  meant  for  you." 

"  Forme,  mamma':'' 

"  It  is  a  small  parcel  that  was  pushed  back  in  the  far  corner 
of  a  drawer  in  what  used  to  be  poor  Hector's  room.  I  came 
across  it  only  half  an  hour  ago:  it  is  directed  in  his  hand  writ- 
ing. '  For  my  sister-in-laii'.'  " 

;>  It  surely  cannot  be  for  me,"  says  Diana,  trembling  a  little. 

"  Open  it,  and  see." 

Diana  unfastens  the  string  that  binds  it;  her  deft  fingers  are 
unwontedly  awkward.  At  last  she  has  undone  the  first  wrap- 
per. There  is  still  another,  on  which  is  written,  "  For  my  sister- 
•ill-law,  if  she  be  called  Diana." 

The  color  fades  from  Diana's  cheek.  She  knows  not  why  she 
feels  thus  strangely  moved,  but  she  does.  Her  knees  knock  to- 
gether. She  cannot  open  it  in  Lady  Montagu's  presence. 

"Mamma,"  she  says,  in  a  low  hurried  voice,  "I  cannot  open 
it  here.  Let  me  take  it  to  my  room.  I  will  tell  you  about  it 
afterward." 

"  As  you  wish,  my  dear,"  answers  Lady  Montagu,  a  shade  dis- 
appointed, 

Diana  hurries  away  to  her  room.  A  strange  terror  possesses 
her.  She  knows  not  why,  but  she  has  a  presentiment  of  some 
painful  disclosure.  She  is  so  nervous  she  cannot  wait  to  un- 
fasten the  string,  but  taking  a  knife,  cuts  it.  When  she  has 
taken  the  paper  from  it,  she  utters  a  sigh  of  relief;  it  is  only  a 
book,  a  little  old  French  book.  Hastily  she  turns  over  the 
leaves.  Stop!  here  are  marks.  She  reads,  "  The  story  of  the 
sad  knight  who  died  for  a  woman's  sake."  Her  breath  comes 
quick,  she  trembles  in  every  limb,  but  she  reads  on  hurriedly— 


268  DIANA    CAREW. 

reads  the  story— sees  the  identity  of  cases  that  struck  Hector, 
and  understands  with  swift  intuition  what  is  the  meaning  of  this 
legacy  that  he  has  left  her.  Presently  she  comes  to  the  two  un- 
derlined passages,  "  He  lies  dead  in  a  foreign  land,  and  all  for  a 
woman's  sake."  "  But  anon  came  her  own  true  love,  and  they 
were  wed." 

A  little  cry  escapes  her.  She  pushes  the  book  away,  and  gazes 
stupidly  before  her  with  sightless  eyes.  A  great  horror  creeps 
over  her,  Could  it  be  that  he  had  gone  away  from  Alford.  away 
from  his  country,  resolved  in  his  own  heart  to  die  ?  Everything 
seemed  to  comfirm  the  awful  thought— his  last  injunctions  to 
his  brother,  this  underlined  story  addressed  to  his  sister-in-law. 
She,  however  unwittingly,  had  been  the  cause  of  his  death. 
And  he,  as  he  had  foreseen;  having  died  for  her  sake,  had  been 
forgotten,  and  she  had  married  his  brother  and  been  happy. 
The  horror  of  the  thoughts  crowding  one  after  another  seems  as 
if  it  would  almost  bereave  her  of  reason.  Poor  Hector!  at 
last  the  woman  you  have  loved  so  utterly  realizes  all  she  was  to 
you,  all  you  sacrificed  for  her  sake.  She  who  thought  you  cold, 
and  hard,  and  passionless,  knows  at  last  how  you  could  love. 
And  as  the  thought  comes  to  her,  Diana,  all  unmindful  of  her 
dress,  of  her  coming  guests,  whom  she  is  to  meet  with  her  hap- 
piest smiles,  flings  herself  prone  by  her  bedside,  and  in  her  sor- 
row and  remorse  cries  with  such  bitter  tears  as  she  has  never 
thought  to  shed  again  in  the  new  life. 

The  gong  sounds.  Her  ears  are  unmindful;  she  heeds  noth- 
ing, cares  for  nothing,  has  no  thought  but  one  intense,  heart- 
breaking pity  of  the  dead  man  who  had  loved  her  so  utterly.  A 
swift  step  sounds  upon  the  stairs;  she  heeds  it  not.  The  door  is 
pushed  open,  her  husband  calls  her  by  name,  once,  twice,  she 
heeds  not,  answers  not. 

All  at  once  he  catches  sight  of  her  prone  form,  hears  her  gasp- 
ing sobs. 

"  God  in  heaven!"  he  cries,  with  white  lips;  "my  own  little 
darling,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Speak  to  me— oh,  child,  for  God's 
sake  speak  to  me!" 

She  answers  him  by  never  a  word.  He  takes  her  up  in  his 
arms,  lays  her  on  the  sofa,  and  kneels  down  beside  her, 

"  Do  you  want  to  break  my  heart  ?"  he  whispers,  in  a  tone  of 
such  utter  misery  that  she  at  last  comes  back  from  her  agonized 
trance  and  remembers  him.  She  points  to  the  book, 

"  Read,"  she  murmurs;  "  read." 

And  he,  wondering  more  and  more,  takes  the  book  that  is 
lying  open,  and  reads  for  himself— reads  the  bitter  story  from 
beginning  to  end.  Then  he  too  comprehends. 

They  look  from  one  to  the  other  with  mute  misery,  he  has  no 
word  to  eay  that  may  comfort  her,  nor  she  to  him. 

"  Poor  little  girl!  poor  Hector!"  he  murmurs,  at  last,  in  a  bro- 
ken voice,  whilst  the  unwonted  tears  stand  in  his  eyes, 

"  At  least, "says Sir  Charles,  after  a  long  silence,  "thank  God, 
whatever  he  may  have  had  in  his  mind,  poor  fellow,  he  came  to 
his  death  by  fair  means.  Poor  little  darling!"  (with  infinite  ten- 
derness), "this  must  grieve  you  terribly;  and  so,  Heaven  knows, 


DIANA    CAREW.  269 

it  does  me.  But  you  have  no  cause  to  blame  yourself.  What 
could  you  have  done  ?  There  is  only  one  thing  we  can  do  now  " 
(sighing);  "  that  is,  to  remember  him,  and  do  our  utmost  to  carry 
out  all  ID'S  wishes.  And,  darling,  for  Heaven's  sake  keep  it  from 
rny  poor  mother.  It  would  break  her  heart." 

And  so  Diana  rises  and  washes  the  tears  from  her  face  as  lie 
bids  her.  But  she  goes  heavily,  as  one  that  mourneth  for  a 
brother. 

She  feels  now  as  if  this  will  always  stand  between  her  and  joy 
all  her  life  through. 


are  surrounded  by  those  we  love,  when  the  world  showers  its 
fairest  gifts  with  lavish  hands  upon  us,  when  we  have  the  faith- 
ful heart  of  him  whom  we  love  best  in  the  world  to  lay  our  sor- 
rowful head  upon,  how  can  we  but  forget? 

"  And  the  grief  shall  endure  not  forever,  J  know; 
As  things  that  are  not  shall  these 


Wrecked  hope  and  passionate  pain  shall  be 
As  tender  things  of  a  spring-tide  sea." 

And  Diana,  though  she  is  moved  with  such  sorrow  to-day  for 
the  man  who  loved  her  "not  wisely,  but  too  well"  —  Diana,  be- 
cause her  sorrow  is  grounded  on  pity,  not  on  love  —  because  she 
has  the  constant  presence  and  passion  of  the  man  who  is  all  in 
all  to  her  —  Diana  needs  must  cease  to  grieve,  needs  must  be  her 
own  joyous,  radiant  self  again;  but,  in  the  midst  of  her  happiness, 
she  will  nevermore  lose  the  memory  of  the  man  who  died  in  a 
foreign  land,  and  all  for  a  woman's  sake. 

JTHE  END.] 


000  043  692    3 


